DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 


CONFLICT 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFOMIA 
DAVIS 


THE  CONFLICT 


THE  WORKS  OF  DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 

The  Conflict 
The  Grain  of  Dust  The  Husband's  Story 

The  Hungry  Heart  White  Magic 

The  Fashionable  Adventures  of  Joshua  Craig 

The  Worth  of  a  Woman 

Old  Wives  for  New- 
Li  ght-fingered  Gentry 
The  Second  Generation 
The  Deluge  The  Master  Rogue 

The  Social  Secretary         Golden  Fleece 
The  Plum  Tree  A  Woman  Ventures 

The  Cost  The  Great  God  Success 


161 


David  Graham  Phillips 


THE  CONFLICT 

A   NOVEL 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

D.   APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1911 


C1BKAKT 

OF  CALIFOBHXA 
DAVIS 


COPYRIGHT.    1911,   BY 
D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Published  September,  1911 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


THE  CONFLICT 


Four  years  at  Wellesley;  two  years  about  equally 
divided  among  Paris,  Dresden  and  Florence.  And  now 
Jane  Hastings  was  at  home  again.  At  home  in  the  un 
changed  house — spacious,  old-fashioned — looking  down 
from  its  steeply  sloping  lawns  and  terraced  gardens 
upon  the  sooty,  smoky  activities  of  Remsen  City,  look 
ing  out  upon  a  charming  panorama  of  hills  and  valleys 
in  the  heart  of  South  Central  Indiana.  Six  years  of 
striving  in  the  East  and  abroad  to  satisfy  the  restless 
energy  she  inherited  from  her  father ;  and  here  she  was, 
as  restless  as  ever — yet  with  everything  done  that  a 
woman  could  do  in  the  way  of  an  active  career.  She 
looked  back  upon  her  years  of  elaborate  preparation; 
she  looked  forward  upon — nothing.  That  is,  nothing 
but  marriage — dropping  her  name,  dropping  her  per 
sonality,  disappearing  in  the  personality  of  another. 
She  had  never  seen  a  man  for  whom  she  would  make 
such  a  sacrifice;  she  did  not  believe  that  such  a  man 
existed. 

She  meditated  bitterly  upon  that  cruel  arrangement 
of  Nature's  whereby  the  father  transmits  his  vigorous 

1 

•    2037356 


THE    CONFLICT 


qualities  in  twofold  measure  to  the  daughter,  not  in  or 
der  that  she  may  be  a  somebody,  but  solely  in  order 
that  she  may  transmit  them  to  sons.  "I  don't  be 
lieve  it,"  she  decided.  "There's  something  for  me 
to  do."  But  what?  She  gazed  down  at  Remsen  City, 
connected  by  factories  and  pierced  from  east,  west 
and  south  by  railways.  She  gazed  out  over  the  fields 
and  woods.  Yes,  there  must  be  something  for  her 
besides  merely  marrying  and  breeding — just  as  much 
for  her  as  for  a  man.  But  what?  If  she  should 
marry  a  man  who  would  let  her  rule  him,  she  would 
despise  him.  If  she  should  marry  a  man  she  could 
respect — a  man  who  was  of  the  master  class  like  her 
father — how  she  would  hate  him  for  ignoring  her 
and  putting  her  in  her  ordained  inferior  feminine 
place.  She  glanced  down  at  her  skirts  with  an  angry 
sense  of  enforced  masquerade.  And  then  she  laughed 
— for  she  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor  that  always  came 
to  her  rescue  when  she  was  in  danger  of  taking  herself 
too  seriously. 

Through  the  foliage  between  her  and  the  last  of 
the  stretches  of  highroad  winding  up  from  Remsen 
City  she  spied  a  man  climbing  in  her  direction — a  long, 
slim  figure  in  cap,  Norfolk  jacket  and  knickerbockers. 
Instantly — and  long  before  he  saw  her — there  was  a 
grotesque  whisking  out  of  sight  of  the  serious  person 
ality  upon  which  we  have  been  intruding.  In  its  stead 
there  stood  ready  to  receive  the  young  man  a  woman 
of  the  type  that  possesses  physical  charm  and  knows 

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how  to  use  it — and  does  not  scruple  to  use  it.  For  a 
woman  to  conquer  man  by  physical  charm  is  far  and 
away  the  easiest,  the  most  fleeting  and  the  emptiest  of 
victories.  But  for  woman  thus  to  conquer  without  her 
self  yielding  anything  whatsoever,  even  so  little  as  an 
alluring  glance  of  the  eye — that  is  quite  another  mat 
ter.  It  was  this  sort  of  conquest  that  Jane  Hastings 
delighted  in — and  sought  to  gain  with  any  man  who 
came  within  range.  If  the  men  had  known  what  she  was 
about,  they  would  have  denounced  her  conduct  as  con 
temptible  and  herself  as  immoral,  even  brazen.  But 
in  their  innocence  they  accused  only  their  sophisticated 
and  superbly  masculine  selves  and  regarded  her  as  the 
soul  of  innocence.  This  was  the  more  absurd  in  them 
because  she  obviously  excelled  in  the  feminine  art  of  in 
viting  display  of  charm.  To  glance  at  her  was  to  real 
ize  at  once  the  beauty  of  her  figure,  the  exceeding  grace 
of  her  long  back  and  waist.  A  keen  observer  would 
have  seen  the  mockery  lurking  in  her  light-brown 
eyes,  and  about  the  corners  of  her  full  red  lips.  She 
arranged  her  thick  dark  hair  to  make  a  secret,  half- 
revealed  charm  of  her  fascinating  pink  ears  and  to 
reveal  in  dazzling  unexpectedness  the  soft,  round  white 
ness  of  the  nape  of  her  neck. 

Because  you  are  thus  let  into  Miss  Hastings'  naughty 
secret,  so  well  veiled  behind  an  air  of  earnest  and  almost 
cold  dignity,  you  must  not  do  her  the  injustice  of 
thinking  her  unusually  artful.  Such  artfulness  is  com 
mon  enough;  it  secures  husbands  by  the  thousand  and 


THE   CONFLICT 


by  the  tens  of  thousands.  No,  only  in  the  skill  of 
artfulness  was  Miss  Hastings  unusual. 

As  the  long  strides  of  the  tall,  slender  man  brought 
him  rapidly  nearer,  his  face  came  into  plain  view.  A 
refined,  handsome  face,  dark  and  serious.  He  had 
dark-brown  eyes — and  Miss  Hastings  did  not  like 
brown  eyes  in  a  man.  She  thought  that  men  should 
have  gray  or  blue  or  greenish  eyes,  and  if  they  were 
cruel  in  their  love  of  power  she  liked  it  the  better. 

"Hello,  Dave,"  she  cried  in  a  pleasant,  friendly  voice. 
She  was  posed — in  the  most  unconscious  of  attitudes — 
upon  a  rustic  bench  so  that  her  extraordinary  figure 
was  revealed  at  its  most  attractive. 

The  young  man  halted  before  her,  his  breath  coming 
quickly — not  altogether  from  the  exertion  of  his  steep 
and  rapid  climb.  "Jen,  I'm  mad  about  you,"  he  said, 
his  brown  eyes  soft  and  luminous  with  passion.  "I've 
done  nothing  but  think  about  you  in  the  week  you've 
been  back.  I  didn't  sleep  last  night,  and  I've  come  up 
here  as  early  as  I  dared  to  tell  you — to  ask  you  to 
marry  me." 

He  did  not  see  the  triumph  she  felt,  the  joy  in  hav 
ing  subdued  another  of  these  insolently  superior  males. 
Her  eyes  were  discreetly  veiled;  her  delightful  mouth 
was  arranged  to  express  sadness. 

"I  thought  I  was  an  ambition  incarnate,"  continued 
the  young  man,  unwittingly  adding  to  her  delight  by 
detailing  how  brilliant  her  conquest  was.  "I've  never 
cared  a  rap  about  women — until  I  saw  you.  I  was  all 

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THE   CONFLICT 


for  politics — for  trying  to  do  something  to  make  my 
fellow  men  the  better  for  my  having  lived.  Now — it's 
all  gone.  I  want  you,  Jen.  Nothing  else  matters." 

As  he  paused,  gazing  at  her  in  speechless  longing, 
she  lifted  her  eyes — simply  a  glance.  With  a  stifled 
cry  he  darted  forward,  dropped  beside  her  on  the 
bench  and  tried  to  enfold  her  in  his  arms.  The  veins 
stood  out  in  his  forehead ;  the  expression  of  his  eyes  was 
terrifying. 

She  shrank,  sprang  up.  His  baffled  hands  had  not 
even  touched  her.  "David  Hull !"  she  cried,  and  the  in 
dignation  and  the  repulsion  in  her  tone  and  in  her 
manner  were  not  simulated,  though  her  artfulness  has 
tened  to  make  real  use  of  them.  She  loved  to  rouse  men 
to  frenzy.  She  knew  that  the  sight  of  their  frenzy 
would  chill  her — would  fill  her  with  an  emotion  that 
would  enable  her  to  remain  mistress  of  the  situation. 

At  sight  of  her  aversion  his  eyes  sank.  "Forgive 
me,"  he  muttered.  "You  make  me — crazy" 

"I!"  she  cried,  laughing  in  angry  derision.  "What 
have  I  ever  done  to  encourage  you  to  be — imperti 
nent?" 

"Nothing,"  he  admitted.  "That  is,  nothing  but  just 
being  yourself." 

"I  can't  help  that,  can  I?" 

"No,"  said  he,  adding  doggedly:  "But  neither  can 
men  help  going  crazy  about  you." 

She  looked  at  him  sitting  there  at  once  penitent 
and  impenitent ;  and  her  mind  went  back  to  the  thoughts 

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THE   CONFLICT 


that  had  engaged  it  before  he  came  into  view.  Mar 
riage — to  marry  one  of  these  men,  with  their  coarse 
physical  ideas  of  women,  with  their  pitiful  weakness 
before  an  emotion  that  seemed  to  her  to  have  no  charm 
whatever.  And  these  were  the  creatures  who  ruled  the 
world  and  compelled  women  to  be  their  playthings  and 
mere  appendages !  Well — no  doubt  it  was  the  women's 
own  fault,  for  were  they  not  a  poor,  spiritless  lot,  trem 
bling  with  fright  lest  they  should  not  find  a  man  to 
lean  on  and  then,  having  found  the  man,  settling  down 
into  fat  and  stupid  vacuity  or  playing  the  cat  at  the 
silly  game  of  social  position  ?  But  not  Jane  Hastings ! 
Her  bosom  heaved  and  her  eyes  blazed  scorn  as  she 
looked  at  this  person  who  had  dared  think  the  touch  of 
his  coarse  hands  would  be  welcome.  Welcome! 

"And  I  have  been  thinking  what  a  delightful  friend 
ship  ours  was,"  said  she,  disgustedly.  "And  all  the  time, 
your  talk  about  your  ambition — the  speeches  you  were 
going  to  make — the  offices  you  were  going  to  hold — 
the  good  you  were  going  to  do  in  purifying  politics — 
it  was  all  a  blind !" 

"All  a  blind,"  admitted  he.  "From  the  first  night 
that  you  came  to  our  house  to  dinner — Jen,  I'll  never 
forget  that  dress  you  wore — or  the  way  you  looked  in 
it." 

Miss  Jane  had  thought  extremely  well  of  that  toilet 
herself.  She  had  heard  how  impervious  this  David  Hull, 
the  best  catch  in  the  town,  was  to  feminine  charm ; 
and  she  had  gone  prepared  to  give  battle.  But  she  said 

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THE   CONFLICT 


dejectedly,  "You  don't  know  what  a  shock  you've  given 
me." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  cried  he.  "I'm  ashamed  of  myself.  But 
— I  love  you,  Jen !  Can't  you  learn  to  love  me  ?" 

"I  hadn't  even  thought  of  you  in  that  way,"  said  she. 
"I  haven't  bothered  my  head  about  marriage.  Of 
course,  most  girls  have  to  think  about  it,  because  they 
must  get  some  one  to  support  them " 

"I  wish  to  God  you  were  one  of  that  sort,"  inter 
rupted  he.  "Then  I  could  have  some  hope." 

"Hope  of  what,"  said  she  disdainfully.  "You  don't 
mean  that  you'd  marry  a  girl  who  was  marrying  you 
because  she  had  to  have  food,  clothing  and  shelter?" 

"I'd  marry  the  woman  I  loved.  Then — I'd  make  her 
love  me.  She  simply  couldn't  help  it." 

Jane  Hastings  shuddered.  "Thank  heaven,  I  don't 
have  to  marry!"  Her  eyes  flashed.  "But  I  wouldn't, 
even  if  I  were  poor.  I'd  rather  go  to  work.  Why 
shouldn't  a  woman  work,  anyhow?" 

"At  what?"  inquired  Hull.  "Except  the  men  who  do 
manual  labor,  there  are  precious  few  men  who  can  make 
a  living  honestly  and  self-respectingly.  It's  fortunate 
the  women  can  hold  aloof  and  remain  pure." 

Jane  laughed  unpleasantly.  "I'm  not  so  sure  that 
the  women  who  live  with  men  just  for  shelter  are  pure," 
said  she. 

"Jen,"  the  young  man  burst  out,  "you're  ambitious — 
aren't  you?" 

"Rather,"  replied  she. 

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THE    CONFLICT 


"And  you  like  the  sort  of  thing  I'm  trying  to  do — 
like  it  and  approve  of  it?" 

"I  believe  a  man  ought  to  succeed — get  to  the  top." 

"So  do  I — if  he  can  do  it  honorably." 

Jane  hesitated — dared.  "To  be  quite  frank,"  said 
she,  "I  worship  success  and  I  despise  failure.  Success 
means  strength.  Failure  means  weakness — and  I  abomi 
nate  weakness." 

•    He  looked  quietly  disapproving.     "You  don't  mean 
that.     You  don't  understand  what  you're  saying." 

"Perfectly,"  she  assured  him.  "I'm  not  a  bit  good. 
Education  has  taken  all  the  namby-pamby  nonsense  out 
of  me." 

But  he  was  not  really  hearing;  besides,  what  had 
women  to  do  with  the  realities  of  life?  They  were  made 
to  be  the  property  of  men — that  was  the  truth,  though 
he  would  never  have  confessed  it  to  any  woman.  They 
were  made  to  be  possessed.  "And  I  must  possess  this 
woman,"  he  thought,  his  blood  running  hot.  He 
said: 

"Why  not  help  me  to  make  a  career?  I  can  do  it, 
Jen,  with  you  to  help." 

She  Lad  thought  of  this  before — of  making  a  career 
for  herself,  of  doing  the  "something"  her  intense  energy 
craved,  through  a  man.  The  "something"  must  be  big 
if  it  were  to  satisfy  her;  and  what  that  was  big  could 
a  woman  do  except  through  a  man?  But — this  man. 
Her  eyes  turned  thoughtfully  upon  him — a  look  that 
encouraged  him  to  go  on : 

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THE   CONFLICT 


"Politics  interest  you,  Jen.  I've  seen  that  in  the  way 
you  listen  and  in  the  questions  you  ask." 

She  smiled — but  not  at  the  surface.  In  fact,  his 
political  talk  had  bored  her.  She  knew  nothing  about 
the  subject,  and,  so,  had  been  as  one  listening  to  an 
unknown  language.  But,  like  all  women,  having  only 
the  narrowest  range  of  interests  herself  and  the  things 
that  would  enable  her  to  show  off  to  advantage,  she 
was  used  to  being  bored  by  the  conversational  efforts 
of  men  and  to  concealing  her  boredom.  She  had  lis 
tened  patiently  and  had  led  the  conversation  by  slow, 
imperceptible  stages  round  to  the  interesting  per 
sonal — to  the  struggle  for  dominion  over  this  difficult 
male. 

"Anyhow,"  he  went  on,  "no  intelligent  person  could 
fail  to  be  interested  in  politics,  once  he  or  she  appre 
ciated  what  it  meant.  And  people  of  our  class  owe  it 
to  society  to  take  part  in  politics.  Victor  Dorn  is  a 
crank,  but  he's  right  about  some  things — and  he's  right 
in  saying  that  we  of  the  upper  class  are  parasites  upon 
the  masses.  They  earn  all  the  wealth,  and  we  take  a 
large  part  of  it  away  from  them.  And  it's  plain  steal 
ing  unless  we  give  some  service  in  return.  For  instance, 
you  and  I — what  have  we  done,  what  are  we  doing  that 
entitles  us  to  draw  so  much?  Somebody  must  earn  by 
hard  labor  all  that  is  produced.  We  are  not  earning. 
So" — he  was  looking  handsome  now  in  his  manly  ear 
nestness — "Jen,  it's  up  to  us  to  do  our  share — to  stop, 
stealing — isn't  it?" 

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THE   CONFLICT 


She  was  genuinely  interested.  "I  hadn't  thought  of 
these  things,"  said  she. 

"Victor  Dorn  says  we  ought  to  go  to  work  like  la 
borers,"  pursued  David.  "But  that's  where  he's  a 
crank.  The  truth  is,  we  ought  to  give  the  service  of 
leadership — especially  in  politics.  And  I'm  going  to 
do  it,  Jane  Hastings!" 

For  the  first  time  she  had  an  interest  in  him  other 
than  that  of  conquest.  "Just  what  are  you  going  to 
do?"  she  asked. 

"Not  upset  everything  and  tear  everything  to  pieces, 
as  Victor  Dorn  wants  to  do,"  replied  he.  "But  reform 
the  abuses  and  wrongs — make  it  so  that  every  one  shall 
have  a  fair  chance — make  politics  straight  and  honest." 

This  sounded  hazy  to  her.  "And  what  will  you  get 
out  of  it?"  asked  she. 

He  colored  and  was  a  little  uneasy  as  he  thus  faced 
a  direct  demand  for  his  innermost  secret — the  secret  of 
selfishness  he  tried  to  hide  even  from  himself.  But  there 
was  no  evading;  if  he  would  interest  her  he  must  show 
her  the  practical  advantages  of  his  proposal.  "If  I'm 
to  do  any  good,"  said  he,  putting  the  best  face,  and 
really  not  a  bad  face,  upon  a  difficult  and  delicate  mat 
ter — "if  I'm  to  do  any  good  I  must  win  a  commanding 
position — must  get  to  be  a  popular  leader — must  hold 
high  offices — and — and — all  that." 

"I  understand,"  said  she.  "That  sounds  attractive. 
Yes,  David,  you  ought  to  make  a  career.  If  I  were 
a  man  that's  the  career  I'd  choose." 


THE    CONFLICT 


"You  can  choose  it,  though  you're  a  woman,"  re 
joined  he.  "Marry  me,  and  we'll  go  up  together. 
You've  no  idea  how  exciting  campaigns  and  elections 
are.  A  little  while,  and  you'll  be  crazy  about  it  all.  The 
women  are  taking  part,  more  and  more." 

"Who's  Victor  Dorn?"  she  suddenly  asked. 

"You  must  remember  him.  It  was  his  father  that  was 
killed  by  the  railway  the  day  we  all  went  on  that  ex 
cursion  to  Indianapolis." 

"Dorn  the  carpenter,"  said  Jane.  "Yes — I  re 
member."  Her  face  grew  dreamy  with  the  effort  of 
memory.  "I  see  it  all  again.  And  there  was  a 
boy  with  a  very  white  face  who  knelt  and  held  his 
head." 

"That  was  Victor,"  said  HuU. 

"Yes — I  remember  him.  He  was  a  bad  boy — always 
fighting  and  robbing  orchards  and  getting  kept  after 
school." 

"And  he's  still  a  bad  boy — but  in  a  different  way. 
He's  out  against  everything  civilized  and  everybody 
that's  got  money." 

"What  does  he  do?    Keep  a  saloon?" 

"No,  but  he  spends  a  lot  of  time  at  them.  I  must 
say  for  him  that  he  doesn't  drink — and  professes  not 
to  believe  in  drink.  When  I  pointed  out  to  him  what  a 
bad  example  he  set,  loafing  round  saloons,  he  laughed 
at  me  and  said  he  was  spending  his  spare  time  exactly 
as  Jesus  Christ  did.  'You'll  find,  Davy,  old  man,'  he 
said,  'if  you'll  take  the  trouble  to  read  your  Bible,  that 

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THE    CONFLICT 


Jesus  traveled  with  publicans  and  sinners — and  a  pub 
lican  is  in  plain  English  a  saloonkeeper.' ' 

"That  was  very  original — wasn't  it?"  said  Jane. 
"I'm  interested  in  this  man.  He's — different.  I  like 
people  who  are  different." 

"I  don't  think  you'd  like  him,  Victor  Dorn,"  said 
David. 

"Don't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes — in  a  way.  I  admire  him,"  graciously. 
"He's  really  a  remarkable  fellow,  considering  his  oppor 
tunities." 

"He  calls  you  'Davy,  old  man,' "  suggested  Jane. 

Hull  flushed.  "That's  his  way.  He's  free  and  easy 
with  every  one.  He  thinks  conventionality  is  a  joke." 

"And  it  is,"  cried  Miss  Hastings. 

"You'd  not  think  so,"  laughed  Hull,  "if  he  called  you 
Jane  or  Jenny  or  my  dear  Jenny  half  an  hour  after  he 
met  you." 

"He  wouldn't,"  said  Miss  Hastings  in  a  peculiar  tone. 

"He  would  if  he  felt  like  it,"  replied  Hull.  "And  if 
you  resented  it,  he'd  laugh  at  you  and  walk  away.  I 
suspect  him  of  being  a  good  deal  of  a  poseur  and  a 
fakir.  All  those  revolutionary  chaps  are.  But  I  hon 
estly  think  that  he  really  doesn't  care  a  rap  for  classes 
— or  for  money — or  for  any  of  the  substantial  things." 

"He  sounds  common,"  said  Miss  Hastings.  "I've  lost 
interest  in  him."  Then  in  the  same  breath:  "How  does 
he  live?  Is  he  a  carpenter?" 

"He  was — for  several  years.  You  see,  he  and  his 

12 


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mother  together  brought  up  the  Dorn  family  after  the 
father  was  killed.  They  didn't  get  a  cent  of  damages 
from  the  railroad.  It  was  an  outrage " 

"But  my  father  was  the  largest  owner  of  the  rail 
road." 

Hull  colored  violently.  "You  don't  understand  about 
business,  Jen.  The  railroad  is  a  corporation.  It  fought 
the  case — and  the  Dorns  had  no  money — and  the  rail 
way  owned  the  judge  and  bribed  several  jurors  at  each 
trial.  Dorn  says  that  was  what  started  him  to  thinking 
— to  being  a  revolutionist — though  he  doesn't  call  him 
self  that." 

"I  should  think  it  would !"  cried  Miss  Hastings.     "If 

my   father  had  known "     She  caught  her  breath. 

"But  he  must  have  known !  He  was  on  the  train  that 
day." 

"You  don't  understand  business,  Jen.  Your  father 
wouldn't  interfere  with  the  management  of  the  cor 
poration." 

"He  makes  money  out  of  it — doesn't  he?" 

"So  do  we  all  get  money  out  of  corporations  that  are 
compelled  to  do  all  sorts  of  queer  things.  But  we  can't 
abolish  the  system — we've  got  to  reform  it.  That's  why 
I'm  in  politics — and  want  you " 

"Something  must  be  done  about  that,"  interrupted 
Jane.  "I  shall  talk  to  father " 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Jen,"  cried  David  in  alarm, 
"don't  tell  your  father  I've  been  stirring  you  up.  He's 

one  of  the  powers  in  politics  in  this  State,  and " 

2  13 


THE   CONFLICT 


"I'll  not  give  you  away,  Davy/*  said  Miss  Hastings  a 
little  contemptuously.  "I  want  to  hear  more  about  this 
Victor  Dorn.  I'll  get  that  money  for  him  and  his 
mother.  Is  he  very  poor?"  \ 

"Well — you'd  call  him  poor.  But  he  says  he  has 
plenty.  He  runs  a  small  paper.  I  think  he  makes 
about  twenty-five  dollars  a  week  out  of  it — and  a  little 
more  out  of  lecturing.  Then — every  once  in  a  while  he 
goes  back  to  his  trade — to  keep  his  hand  in  and  en 
joy  the  luxury  of  earning  honest  money,  as  he  puts 
it." 

"How  queer!"  exclaimed  Miss  Hastings.  "I  would 
like  to  meet  him.  Is  he — very  ignorant?" 

"Oh,  no — no,  indeed.  He's  worked  his  way  through 
college — and  law  school  afterward.  Supported  the 
family  all  the  time." 

"He  must  be  tremendously  clever." 

"I've  given  you  an  exaggerated  idea  of  him,"  Davy 
hastened  to  say.  "He's  really  an  ordinary  sort  of 
chap." 

"I  should  think  he'd  get  rich,"  said  Miss  Hastings. 
"Most  of  the  men  that  do — so  far  as  I've  met  them — 
seem  ordinary  enough." 

"He  says  he  could  get  rich,  but  that  he  wouldn't 
waste  time  that  way.  But  he's  fond  of  boasting." 

"You  don't  think  he  could  make  money — after  all  he 
did — going  to  college  and  everything?" 

"Yes — I  guess  he  could,"  reluctantly  admitted  Davy. 
Then  in  a  burst  of  candor:  "Perhaps  I'm  a  little  jealous 

14 


THE   CONFLICT 


of  him.  If  7  were  thrown  on  my  own  resources,  I'm  afraid 
I'd  make  a  pretty  wretched  showing.  But — don't  get  an 
exaggerated  idea  of  him.  The  things  I've  told  you 
sound  romantic  and  unusual.  If  you  met  him — saw  him 
every  day — you'd  realize  he's  not  at  all — at  least,  not 
much — out  of  the  ordinary." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Hastings  shrewdly,  "perhaps 
I'm  getting  a  better  idea  of  him  than  you  who  see  him  so 
often." 

"Oh,  you'll  run  across  him  sometime,"  said  Davy, 
who  was  bearing  up  no  better  than  would  the  next 
man  under  the  strain  of  a  woman's  interest  in  and  ex 
citement  about  another  man.  "When  you  do,  you'll 
get  enough  in  about  five  minutes.  You  see,  he's  not  a 
gentleman." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I'm  wildly  crazy  about  gentle 
men — as  gentlemen,"  replied  the  girl.  "Very  few  of 
the  interesting  people  I've  read  about  in  history  and 
biography  have  been  gentlemen." 

"And  very  few  of  them  would  have  been  pleasant  to 
associate  with,"  rejoined  Hull.  "You'll  admire  Victor 
as  I  do.  But  you'll  feel — as  I  do — that  there's  small 
excuse  for  a  man  who  has  been  educated,  who  has  asso 
ciated  with  upper  class  people,  turning  round  and  in 
citing  the  lower  classes  against  everything  that's  fine 
and  improving." 

It  was  now  apparent  to  the  girl  that  David  Hull 
was  irritatedly  jealous  of  this  queer  Victor  Dora — 
was  jealous  of  her  interest  in  him.  Her  obvious  cue 

15 


THE   CONFLICT 


was  to  fan  this  flame.  In  no  other  way  could  she  get 
any  amusement  out  of  Davy's  society ;  for  his  tendency 
was  to  be  heavily  serious — and  she  wanted  no  more  of 
the  too  strenuous  love  making,  yet  wanted  to  keep 
him  "on  the  string."  This  jealousy  was  just  the  means 
for  her  end.  Said  she  innocently:  "If  it  irritates  you, 
Davy,  we  won't  talk  about  him." 

"Not  at  all— not  at  all,"  cried  Hull.  "I  simply 
thought  you'd  be  getting  tired  of  hearing  so  much 
about  a  man  you'd  never  known." 

"But  I  feel  as  if  I  did  know  him,"  replied  she. 
"Your  account  of  him  was  so  vivid.  I  thought  of 
asking  you  to  bring  him  to  call." 

Hull  laughed  heartily.     "Victor  Dorn— calling !" 

"Why  not?" 

"He  doesn't  do  that  sort  of  thing.  And  if  he  did, 
how  could  I  bring  him  here  ?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Well — in  the  first  place,  you  are  a  lady — and  he 
is  not  in  your  class.  Of  course,  men  can  associate 
with  each  other  in  politics  and  business.  But  the 
social  side  of  life — that's  different." 

"But  a  while  ago  you  were  talking  about  my  going 
in  for  politics,"  said  Miss  Hastings  demurely. 

"Still,  you'd  not  have  to  meet  socially  queer  and 
rough  characters " 

"Is  Victor  Dorn  very  rough?" 

The  interrupting  question  was  like  the  bite  of  a  big 
fly  to  a  sweating  horse.  "I'm  getting  sick  of  hearing 

16 


THE   CONFLICT 


about  him  from  you,"  cried  Hull  with  the  pettishness 
of  the  spoiled  children  of  the  upper  class. 

"In  what  way  is  he  rough?"  persisted  Miss  Hast 
ings.  "If  you  didn't  wish  to  talk  about  Victor  Dorn, 
why  did  you  bring  the  subject  up?" 

"Oh — all  right,"  cried  Hull,  restraining  himself. 
"Victor  isn't  exactly  rough.  He  can  act  like  a  gentle 
man — when  he  happens  to  want  to.  But  you  never  can 
tell  what  he'll  do  next." 

"You  must  bring  him  to  call!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Hastings. 

"Impossible,"  said  Hull  angrily. 

"But  he's  the  only  man  I've  heard  about  since  I've 
been  home  that  I've  taken  the  least  interest  in." 

"If  he  did  come,  your  father  would  have  the  servants 
throw  him  off  the  place." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Hiss  Hastings  haughtily.  "My  father 
wouldn't  insult  a  guest  of  mine." 

"But  you  don't  know,  Jen,"  cried  David.  "Why, 
Victor  Dorn  attacks  your  father  in  the  most  outrageous 
way  in  his  miserable  little  anarchist  paper — calls  him 
a  thief,  a  briber,  a  blood-sucker — a — I'd  not  venture 
to  repeat  to  you  the  things  he  says." 

"No  doubt  he  got  a  false  impression  of  father  be 
cause  of  that  damage  suit,"  said  Miss  Hastings  mildly. 
"That  was  a  frightful  thing.  I  can't  be  so  unjust  as 
to  blame  him,  Davy — can  you?" 

Hull  was  silent. 

"And  I  guess  father  does  have  to  do  a  lot  of  things 

17 


THE   CONFLICT 


in  the  course  of  business Don't  all  the  big  men 

—the  leaders?" 

"Yes— unfortunately  they  do,"  said  Hull.  "That's 
what  gives  plausibility  to  the  shrieks  of  demagogues 
like  Victor  Dorn — though  Victor  is  too  well  educated 
not  to  know  better  than  to  stir  up  the  ignorant  classes." 

"I  wonder  why  he  does  it,"  said  Miss  Hastings,  re 
flectively.  "I  must  ask  him.  I  want  to  hear  what  he 
says  to  excuse  himself."  In  fact,  she  had  not  the  faint 
est  interest  in  the  views  of  this  queer  unknown ;  her 
chief  reason  for  saying  she  had  was  to  enjoy  David 
Hull's  jealousy. 

"Before  you  try  to  meet  Victor,"  said  Hull,  in  a 
constrained,  desperate  way,  "please  speak  to  your 
father  about  it." 

"I  certainly  shall,"  replied  the  girl.  "As  soon  as 
he  comes  home  this  afternoon,  I'm  going  to  talk  to  him 
about  that  damage  suit.  That  has  got  to  be  straight 
ened  out."  An  expression  of  resolution,  of  gentleness 
and  justice  abruptly  transformed  her  face.  "You  may 
not  believe  it,  but  I  have  a  conscience."  Absently,  "A 
curious  sort  of  a  conscience — one  that  might  become 
very  troublesome,  I'm  afraid — in  some  circumstances." 

Instantly  the  fine  side  of  David  Hull's  nature  was 
to  the  fore — the  dominant  side,  for  at  the  first  appeal 
it  always  responded.  "So  have  I,  Jen,"  said  he.  "I 
think  our  similarity  in  that  respect  is  what  draws  me 
so  strongly  to  you.  And  it's  that  that  makes  me  hope 
I  can  win  you.  .Oh,  Jen — there's  so  much  to  be  done 

18 


THE   CONFLICT 


in  the  world — and  you  and  I  could  have  such  a  splen 
did  happy  fife  doing  our  share  of  it." 

She  was  once  more  looking  at  him  with  an  encourag 
ing  interest.  But  she  said,  gently:  "Let's  not  talk 
about  that  any  more  to-day,  Davy." 

"But  you'll  think  about  it?"  urged  he. 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "Let's  be  friends — and — and  see 
what  happens." 

Hull  strolled  up  to  the  house  with  her,  but  refused 
to  stop  for  lunch.  He  pleaded  an  engagement;  but  it 
was  one  that  could — and  in  other  circumstances  would 
— have  been  broken  by  telephone.  His  real  reason 
for  hurrying  away  was  fear  lest  Jane  should  open  out 
on  the  subject  of  Victor  Dorn  with  her  father,  and,  in 
her  ignorance  of  the  truth  as  to  the  situation,  should 
implicate  him.  She  found  her  father  already  at  home 
and  having  a  bowl  of  crackers  and  milk  in  a  shady 
corner  of  the  west  veranda.  He  was  chewing  in  the 
manner  of  those  whose  teeth  are  few  and  not  too  secure. 
His  brows  were  knitted  and  he  looked  as  if  not  merely 
joy  but  everything  except  disagreeable  sensation  had 
long  since  fled  his  life  beyond  hope  of  return — an  air 
not  uncommon  among  the  world's  successful  men. 
However,  at  sight  of  his  lovely  young  daughter  his 
face  cleared  somewhat  and  he  shot  at  her  from  under 
his  wildly  and  savagely  narrowed  eyebrows  a  glance  of 
admiration  and  tenderness — a  quaint  expression  for 
those  cold,  hard  features. 

Everyone  spoke  of  him  behind  his  back  as  "Old  Mor- 

19 


THE   CONFLICT 


ton  Hastings."  In  fact,  he  was  barely  past  sixty,  was 
at  an  age  at  which  city  men  of  the  modern  style  count 
themselves  young  and  even  entertain — not  without  rea 
son — hope  of  being  desired  of  women  for  other  than 
purely  practical  reasons.  He  was  born  on  a  farm — 
was  born  with  an  aversion  to  physical  exertion  as  pro 
found  as  was  his  passion  for  mental  exertion.  We  never 
shall  know  how  much  of  its  progress  the  world  owes 
to  the  physically  lazy,  mentally  tireless  men.  Those 
are  they  who,  to  save  themselves  physical  exertion,  have 
devised  all  manner  of  schemes  and  machines  to  save 
labor.  And,  at  bottom,  what  is  progress  but  man's 
success  in  his  effort  to  free  himself  from  manual  labor 
— to  get  everything  for  himself  by  the  labor  of  other 
men  and  animals  and  of  machines?  Naturally  his  boy 
hood  of  toil  on  the  farm  did  not  lessen  Martin  Hastings' 
innate  horror  of  "real  work."  He  was  not  twenty 
when  he  dropped  tools  never  to  take  them  up  again. 
He  was  shoeing  a  horse  in  the  heat  of  the  cool  side  of 
the  barn  on  a  frightful  August  day.  Suddenly  he  threw 
down  the  hammer  and  said  loudly :  "A  man  that  works 
is  a  damn  fool.  I'll  never  work  again."  And  he  never 
did. 

As  soon  as  he  could  get  together  the  money — and  it 
was  not  long  after  he  set  about  making  others  work 
for  him — he  bought  a  buggy,  a  kind  of  phaeton,  and 
a  safe  horse.  Thenceforth  he  never  walked  a  step  that 
could  be  driven.  The  result  of  thirty-five  years  of  this 
life,  so  unnatural  to  an  animal  that  is  designed  by 

20 


THE   CONFLICT 


Nature  for  walking  and  is  punished  for  not  doing  so — 
the  result  of  a  lifetime  of  this  folly  was  a  body 
shrivelled  to  a  lean  brown  husk,  legs  incredibly  meagre 
and  so  tottery  that  they  scarcely  could  bear  him  about. 
His  head — large  and  finely  shaped — seemed  so  out  of 
proportion  that  he  looked  at  a  glance  senile.  But  no 
one  who  had  business  dealings  with  him  suspected  him  of 
senility  or  any  degree  of  weakness.  He  spoke  in  a  thin 
dry  voice,  shrouded  in  sardonic  humor. 

"I  don't  care  for  lunch,"  said  Jane,  dropping  to  a 
chair  near  the  side  of  the  table  opposite  her  father. 
"I  had  breakfast  too  late.  Besides,  I've  got  to  look 
out  for  my  figure.  There's  a  tendency  to  fat  in  our 
family." 

The  old  man  chuckled.     "Me,  for  instance,"  said  he. 

"Martha,  for  instance,"  replied  Jane.  Martha  was 
her  one  sister — married  and  ten  years  older  than  she 
and  spaciously  matronly. 

"Wasn't  that  Davy  Hull  you  were  talking  to,  down 
in  the  woods?"  inquired  her  father. 

Jane  laughed.     "You  see  everything,"  said  she. 

"I  didn't  see  much  when  I  saw  him,"  said  her  father. 

Jane  was  hugely  amused.  Her  father  watched  her 
laughter — the  dazzling  display  of  fine  teeth — with  de 
lighted  eyes.  "You've  got  mighty  good  teeth,  Jenny," 
observed  he.  "Take  care  of  'em.  You'll  never  know 
what  misery  is  till  you've  got  no  teeth — or  next  to 
none."  He  looked  disgustedly  into  his  bowl.  "Crackers 
and  milk!"  grunted  he.  "No  teeth  and  no  digestion. 

21 


THE   CONFLICT 


The  only  pleasure  a  man  of  my  age  can  have  left  is 
eating,  and  I'm  cheated  out  of  that." 

"So,  you  wouldn't  approve  of  my  marrying  Davy?" 
said  the  girl. 

Her  father  grunted^— chuckled.  "I  didn't  say  that. 
Does  he  want  to  marry  you?" 

"I  didn't  say  that,"  retorted  Jane.  "He's  an  un 
attached  young  man — and  I,  being  merely  a  woman, 
have  got  to  look  out  for  a  husband." 

Martin  looked  gloomy.  "There's  no  hurry,"  said 
he.  "You've  been  away  six  years.  Seems  to  me  you 
might  stay  at  home  a  while." 

"Oh,  I'd  bring  him  here,  popsy.  I've  no  intention  of 
leaving  you.  You  were  in  an  awful  state,  when  I  came 
home.  That  mustn't  ever  happen  again.  And  as  you 
won't  live  with  Martha  and  Hugo — why,  I've  got  to 
be  the  victim." 

"Yes — it's  up  to  you,  Miss,  to  take  care  of  me  in  my 
declining  years.  .  .  .  You  can  marry  Davy — if 
you  want  to.  Davy — or  anybody.  I  trust  to  your 
good  sense." 

"If  I  don't  like  him,  I  can  get  rid  of  him,"  said  the 
girl. 

Her  father  smiled  indulgently.  "That's  a  lee  tie  too 
up-to-date  for  an  old  man  like  me,"  observed  he.  "The 
world's  moving  fast  nowadays.  It's  got  a  long  ways 
from  where  it  was  when  your  ma  and  I  were  young." 

"Do  you  think  Davy  Hull  will  make  a  career?"  asked 
Jane.  She  had  heard  from  time  to  time  as  much  as 

22 


THE   CONFLICT 


she  cared  to  hear  about  the  world  of  a  generation  before 
— of  its  bareness  and  discomfort,  its  primness,  its  re 
pulsive  piety,  its  ignorance  of  all  that  made  life  bright 
and  attractive — how  it  quite  overlooked  this  life  in  its 
agitation  about  the  extremely  problematic  life  to  come. 
"I  mean  a  career  in  politics,"  she  explained. 

The  old  man  munched  and  smacked  for  full  a  minute 
before  he  said,  "Well,  he  can  make  a  pretty  good 
speech.  Yes — I  reckon  he  could  be  taken  in  hand  and 
pushed.  He's  got  a  lot  of  fool  college-bred  ideas  about 
reforming  things.  But  he'd  soon  drop  them,  if  he  got 
into  the  practical  swing.  As  soon  as  he  had  a  taste 
of  success,  he'd  stop  being  finicky.  Just  now,  he's  one 
of  those  nice,  pure  chaps  who  stand  off  and  tell  how 
things  ought  to  be  done.  But  he'd  get  over  that." 

Jane  smiled  peculiarly — half  to  herself.  "Yes — I 
think  he  would.  In  fact,  I'm  sure  he  would."  She 
looked  at  her  father.  "Do  you  think  he  amounts  to  as 
much  as  Victor  Dorn?"  she  asked,  innocently. 

The  old  man  dropped  a  half  raised  spoonful  of  milk 
and  crackers  into  the  bowl  with  a  splash.  "Dorn — 
he's  a  scoundrel!"  he  exclaimed,  shaking  with  passion. 
"I'm  going  to  have  that  dirty  little  paper  of  his  stopped 
and  him  put  out  of  town.  Impudent  puppy ! — foul- 
mouthed  demagogue!  I'll  show  him!" 

"Why,  he  doesn't  amount  to  anything,  father,"  re 
monstrated  the  girl.  "He's  nothing  but  a  common 
working  man — isn't  he?" 

"That's  all  he  is— the  hound !"  replied  Martin  Hast- 

23 


THE   CONFLICT 


ings.  A  look  of  cruelty,  of  tenacious  cruelty,  had  come 
into  his  face.  It  would  have  startled  a  stranger.  But 
his  daughter  had  often  seen  it;  and  it  did  not  disturb 
her,  as  it  had  never  appeared  for  anything  that  in  any 
way  touched  her  life.  "I've  let  him  hang  on  here  too 
long,"  went  on  the  old  man,  to  himself  rather  than  to 
her.  "First  thing  I  know  he'll  be  dangerous." 

"If  he's  worth  while  I  should  think  you'd  hire  him," 
remarked  Jane  shrewdly. 

"I  wouldn't  have  such  a  scoundrel  in  my  employ," 
cried  her  father. 

"Oh,  maybe,"  pursued  the  daughter,  "maybe  you 
couldn't  hire  him." 

"Of  course  I  could,"  scoffed  Hastings.  "Anybody 
can  be  hired." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  the  girl  bluntly. 

"One  way  or  another,"  declared  the  old  man.  "That 
Dorn  boy  isn't  worth  the  price  he'd  want." 

"What  price  would  he  want?"  asked  Jane. 

"How  should  I  know?"  retorted  her  father  angrily. 

"You've  tried  to  hire  him — haven't  you?"  persisted 
she. 

The  father  concentrated  on  his  crackers  and  milk. 
Presently  he  said:  "What  did  that  fool  Hull  boy  say 
about  Dorn  to  you?" 

"He  doesn't  like  him,"  replied  Jane.  "He  seems  to 
be  jealous  of  him — and  opposed  to  his  political 
views." 

"Dora's  views  ain't  politics.  They're — theft  and 

24 


THE   CONFLICT 


murder  and  highfalutin  nonsense,"  said  Hastings,  not 
unconscious  of  his  feeble  anti-climax. 

"All  the  same,  he — or  rather,  his  mother — ought  to 
have  got  damages  from  the  railway,"  said  the  girl.  And 
there  was  a  sudden  and  startling  shift  in  her  expression 
— to  a  tenacity  as  formidable  as  her  father's  own,  but 
a  quiet  and  secret  tenacity. 

Old  Hastings  wiped  his  mouth  and  began  fussing  un 
comfortably  with  a  cigar. 

"I  don't  blame  him  for  getting  bitter  and  turning 
against  society,"  continued  she.  "I'd  have  done  the 
same  thing — and  so  would  you." 

Hastings  lit  the  cigar.  "They  wanted  ten  thousand 
dollars,"  he  said,  almost  apologetically.  "Why,  they 
never  saw  ten  thousand  cents  they  could  call  their 
own." 

"But  they  lost  their  bread-winner,  father,"  pleaded 
the  girl.  "And  there  were  young  children  to  bring  up 
and  educate.  Oh,  I  hate  to  think  that — that  we  had 
anything  to  do  with  such  a  wrong." 

"It  wasn't  a  wrong,  Jen — as  I  used  to  tell  your  ma," 
said  the  old  man,  much  agitated  and  shrill  of  voice. 
"It  was  just  the  course  of  business.  The  law  was  with 
our  company." 

Jane  said  nothing.  She  simply  gazed  steadily  at  her 
father.  He  avoided  her  glance. 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  no  more  about  it,"  he  burst 
out  with  abrupt  violence.  "Not  another  word !" 

"Father,  I  want  it  settled — and  settled  right,"  said 

25 


THE    CONFLICT 


the  girl.     "I  ask  it  as  a  favor.     Don't  do  it  as  a  matter 
of  business,  but  as  a  matter  of  sentiment." 

He  shifted  uneasily,  debating.  When  he  spoke  he 
was  even  more  explosive  than  before.  "Not  a  cent  I 
Not  a  red!  Give  that  whelp  money  to  run  his  crazy 
paper  on?  Not  your  father,  while  he  keeps  his  mind." 

"But — mightn't  that  quiet  him?"  pleaded  she. 
"What's  the  use  of  having  war  when  you  can  have 
peace?  You've  always  laughed  at  people  who  let  their 
prejudices  stand  in  the  way  of  their  interests.  You've 
always  laughed  at  how  silly  and  stupid  and  costly 
enmities  and  revenges  are.  Now's  your  chance  to  illus 
trate,  popsy."  And  she  smiled  charmingly  at  him. 

He  was  greatly  softened  by  her  manner — and  by  the 
wisdom  of  what  she  said — a  wisdom  in  which,  as  in  a 
mirror,  he  recognized  with  pleasure  her  strong  resem 
blance  to  himself.  "That  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea,  Jen," 
said  he  after  reflection,  "«/  I  could  get  a  guarantee." 

"But  why  not  do  it  generously?"  urged  the  girl. 
"Generosity  inspires  generosity.  You'll  make  him 
ashamed  of  himself." 

With  a  cynical  smile  on  his  shrivelled  face  the  old 
man  slowly  shook  his  big  head  that  made  him  look  as 
top-heavy  as  a  newborn  baby.  "That  isn't  as  smart, 
child,  as  what  you  said  before.  It's  in  them  things  that 
the  difference  between  theory  and  practice  shows.  He'd 
take  the  money  and  laugh  at  me.  No,  I'll  try  to  get  a 
guarantee."  He  nodded  and  chuckled.  "Yes,  that  was 
a  good  idea  of  yours,  Jen." 

26 


THE    CONFLICT 


"But — isn't  it  just  possible  that  he  is  a  man  with — 
with  principles  of  a  certain  kind?"  suggested  she. 

"Of  course,  he  thinks  so,"  said  Hastings.  "They  all 
do.  But  you  don't  suppose  a  man  of  any  sense  at  all 
could  really  care  about  and  respect  working  class 
people? — ignorant,  ungrateful  fools.  /  know  'em. 
Didn't  I  come  from  among  'em?  Ain't  I  dealt  with  'em 
all  my  life?  No,  that  there  guy  Dorn's  simply  trying 
to  get  up,  and  is  using  them  to  step  up  on.  I  did  the 
same  thing,  only  I  did  it  in  a  decent,  law-abiding  way. 
I  didn't  want  to  tear  down  those  that  was  up.  I  wanted 
to  go  up  and  join  'em.  And  I  did." 

And  his  eyes  glistened  fondly  and  proudly  as  he 
gazed  at  his  daughter.  She  represented  the  climax  of 
his  rising — she,  the  lady  born  and  bred,  in  her  beautiful 
clothes,  with  her  lovely,  delicate  charms.  Yes,  he  had 
indeed  "come  up,"  and  there  before  him  was  the  superb 
tangible  evidence  of  it. 

Jane  had  the  strongest  belief  in  her  father's  worldly 
wisdom.  At  the  same  time,  from  what  David  Hull  said 
she  had  got  an  impression  of  a  something  different 
from  the  ordinary  human  being  in  this  queer  Victor 
Dorn.  "You'd  better  move  slowly,"  she  said  to  her 
father.  "There's  no  hurry,  and  you  might  be  mistaken 
in  him." 

"Plenty  of  time,"  asserted  her  father.  "There's 
never  any  need  to  hurry  about  giving  up  money."  Then, 
with  one  of  those  uncanny  flashes  of  intuition  for 
which  he,  who  was  never  caught  napping,  was  famous, 

27 


THE   CONFLICT 


he  said  to  her  sharply:  "You  keep  your  hands  off, 
miss." 

She  was  thrown  into  confusion — and  her  embarrass 
ment  enraged  her  against  herself.  "What  could  /  do?" 
she  retorted  with  a  brave  attempt  at  indifference. 

"Well — keep  your  hands  off,  miss,"  said  the  old  man. 
"No  female  meddling  in  business.  I'll  stand  for  most 
anything,  but  not  for  that." 

Jane  was  now  all  eagerness  for  dropping  the  subject. 
She  wished  no  further  prying  of  that  shrewd  mind 
into  her  secret  thoughts.  "It's  hardly  likely  I'd  meddle 
where  I  know  nothing  about  the  circumstances,"  said 
she.  "Will  you  drive  me  down  to  Martha's?" 

This  request  was  made  solely  to  change  the  subject, 
to  shift  her  father  to  his  favorite  topic  for  family  con 
versation — his  daughter  Martha,  Mrs.  Hugo  Galland, 
her  weakness  for  fashionable  pastimes,  her  incessant 
hints  and  naggings  at  her  father  about  his  dowdy  dress, 
his  vulgar  mannerisms  of  speech  and  of  conduct,  espe 
cially  at  table.  Jane  had  not  the  remotest  intention  of 
letting  her  father  drive  her  to  Mrs.  Galland's,  or  any 
where,  in  the  melancholy  old  phaeton-buggy,  behind 
the  fat  old  nag  whose  coat  was  as  shabby  as  the 
coat  of  the  master  or  as  the  top  and  the  side  cur 
tains  of  the  sorrowful  vehicle  it  drew  along  at  cater 
pillar  pace. 

When  her  father  was  ready  to  depart  for  his  office 
in  the  Hastings  Block — the  most  imposing  office  build 
ing  in  Remsen  City,  Jane  announced  a  change  of  mind. 

28 


THE   CONFLICT 


"I'll  ride,  instead,"  said  she.  "I  need  the  exercise,  and 
the  day  isn't  too  warm." 

"All  right,"  said  Martin  Hastings  grumpily.  He 
soon  got  enough  of  anyone's  company,  even  of  his 
favorite  daughter's.  Through  years  of  habit  he  liked 
to  jog  about  alone,  revolving  in  his  mind  his  business 
affairs — counting  in  fancy  his  big  bundles  of  securities, 
one  by  one,  calculating  their  returns  past,  present  and 
prospective — reviewing  the  various  enterprises  in  which 
he  was  dominant  factor,  working  out  schemes  for  getting 
more  profit  here,  for  paying  less  wages  there,  for  tight 
ening  his  grip  upon  this  enterprise,  for  dumping  his 
associates  in  that,  for  escaping  with  all  the  valuable 
assets  from  another.  His  appearance,  as  he  and  his 
nag  dozed  along  the  highroad,  was  as  deceptive  as  that 
of  a  hive  of  bees  on  a  hot  day — no  signs  of  life  except 
a  few  sleepy  workers  crawling  languidly  in  and  out  at 
the  low,  broad  crack-door,  yet  within  myriads  toiling 
like  mad. 

Jane  went  up  to  dress.  She  had  brought  an  Italian 
maid  with  her  from  Florence,  and  a  mass  of  baggage 
that  had  given  the  station  loungers  at  Remsen  City 
something  to  talk  about,  when  there  was  a  dearth  of 
new  subjects,  for  the  rest  of  their  lives.  She  had  trans 
formed  her  own  suite  in  the  second  story  of  the  big  old 
house  into  an  appearance  of  the  quarters  of  a  twentieth 
century  woman  of  wealth  and  leisure.  In  the  sitting 
room  were  books  in  four  languages;  on  the  walls  were 
tasteful  reproductions  of  her  favorite  old  masters.  The 
3  29 


THE   CONFLICT 


excellence  of  her  education  was  attested  not  by  the 
books  and  pictures  but  by  the  absence  of  those  fussy, 
commonplace  draperies  and  bits  of  bric-a-brac  where-, 
with  people  of  no  taste  and  no  imagination  furnish  their 
houses  because  they  can  think  of  nothing  else  to  fill  in 
the  gaps. 

Many  of  Jane's  ways  made  Sister  Martha  uneasy. 
For  Martha,  while  admitting  that  Jane  through  su 
perior  opportunity  ought  to  know,  could  not  believe 
that  the  "right  sort"  of  people  on  the  other  side  had 
thrown  over  all  her  beloved  formalities  and  were  con 
ducting  themselves  distressingly  like  tenement-house 
people.  For  instance,  Martha  could  not  approve  Jane's 
habit  of  smoking  cigarettes — a  habit  which,  by  one  of 
those  curious  freaks  of  character,  enormously  pleased 
her  father.  But — except  in  one  matter — Martha  en 
tirely  approved  Jane's  style  of  dress.  She  hastened  to 
pronounce  it  "just  too  elegant"  and  repeated  that 
phrase  until  Jane,  tried  beyond  endurance,  warned  her 
that  the  word  elegant  was  not  used  seriously  by  people 
of  the  "right  sort"  and  that  its  use  was  regarded  as  one 
of  those  small  but  subtle  signs  of  the  loathsome  "middle 
class." 

The  one  thing  in  Jane's  dress  that  Martha  disap 
proved — or,  rather,  shied  at — was  her  riding  suit.  This 
was  an  extremely  noisy  plaid  man's  suit — for  Jane 
rode  astride.  Martha  could  not  deny  that  Jane  looked 
"simply  stunning"  when  seated  on  her  horse  and  dressed 
in  that  garb  with  her  long  slim  feet  and  graceful  calves 

30 


THE    CONFLICT 


encased  in  a  pair  of  riding  boots  that  looked  as  if  they 
must  have  cost  "something  fierce."  But  was  it  really 
"ladylike"?  Hadn't  Jane  made  a  mistake  and  adopted 
a  costume  worn  only  by  the  fashionables  among  the 
demi-mondaines  of  whom  Martha  had  read  and  had 
heard  such  dreadful,  delightful  stories? 

It  was  the  lively  plaid  that  Miss  Hastings  now  clad 
herself  in.  She  loved  that  suit.  Not  only  did  it  give 
her  figure  a  superb  opportunity  but  also  it  brought  out 
new  beauties  in  her  contour  and  coloring.  And  her 
head  was  so  well  shaped  and  her  hair  grew  so  thickly 
about  brow  and  ears  and  nape  of  neck  that  it  looked 
full  as  well  plaited  and  done  close  as  when  it  was  fram 
ing  her  face  and  half  concealing,  half  revealing  her 
charming  ears  in  waves  of  changeable  auburn.  After  a 
lingering — and  pardonably  pleased — look  at  herself  in 
a  long  mirror,  she  descended,  mounted  and  rode  slowly 
down  toward  town. 

The  old  Galland  homestead  was  at  the  western  end 
of  town — in  a  quarter  that  had  become  almost  poor. 
But  it  was  so  dignified  and  its  grounds  were  so  ex 
tensive  that  it  suggested  a  manor  house  with  the  humble 
homes  of  the  lord's  dependents  clustering  about  it  for 
shelter.  To  reach  it  Jane  had  to  ride  through  two 
filthy  streets  lined  with  factories.  As  she  rode  she 
glanced  at  the  windows,  where  could  be  seen  in  dusty 
air  girls  and  boys  busy  at  furiously  driven  machines- 
machines  that  compelled  their  human  slaves  to  strain 
every  nerve  in  the  monotonous  task  of  keeping  them 

31 


THE   CONFLICT 


occupied.  Many  of  the  girls  and  boys  paused  long 
enough  for  a  glance  at  the  figure  of  the  man-clad  girl 
on  the  big  horse. 

Jane,  happy  in  the  pleasant  sunshine,  in  her  beauty 
and  health  and  fine  raiment  and  secure  and  luxurious 
position  in  the  world,  gave  a  thought  of  pity  to  these 
imprisoned  young  people.  "How  lucky  I  am,"  she 
thought,  "not  to  have  been  born  like  that.  Of  course, 
we  all  have  our  falls  now  and  then.  But  while  they 
always  strike  on  the  hard  ground,  I've  got  a  feather 
bed  to  fall  on." 

When  she  reached  Martha's  and  was  ushered  into  the 
cool  upstairs  sitting  room,  in  somehow  ghastly  con 
trast  to  the  hot  rooms  where  the  young  working  people 
sweated  and  strained,  the  subject  persisted  in  its  hold 
on  her  thoughts.  There  was  Martha,  in  comfortable, 
corsetless  expansiveness — an  ideal  illustration  of  the 
worthless  idler  fattening  in  purposelessness.  She  was 
engaged  with  all  her  energies  in  preparing  for  the  ball 
Hugo  Galland's  sister,  Mrs.  Bertrand,  was  giving  at 
the  assembly  rooms  that  night. 

"I've  been  hard  at  it  for  several  days  now,"  said  she. 
"I  think  at  last  I  see  daylight.  But  I  want  your 
opinion." 

Jane  gazed  absently  at  the  dress  and  accompanying 
articles  that  had  been  assembled  with  so  much  labor. 
"All  right,"  said  she.  "You'll  look  fine  and  dandy." 

Martha  twitched.  "Jane,  dear — don't  say  that — 
don't  use  such  an  expression.  I  know  it's  your  way  of 

32 


THE   CONFLICT 


joking.     But  lots  of  people  would  think  you  didn't 
know  any  better." 

"Let  'em  think,"  said  Jane.  "I  say  and  do  as  I 
please." 

Martha  sighed.  Here  was  one  member  of  her  family 
who  could  be  a  credit,  who  could  make  people  forget 
the  unquestionably  common  origin  of  the  Hastingses 
and  of  the  Morleys.  Yet  this  member  was  always  break 
ing  out  into  something  mortifying,  something  reminis 
cent  of  the  farm  and  of  the  livery  stable — for  the  de 
ceased  Mrs.  Hastings  had  been  daughter  of  a  livery 
stable  keeper — in  fact,  had  caught  Martin  Hastings  by 
the  way  she  rode  her  father's  horses  at  a  sale  at  a 
county  fair.  Said  Martha: 

"You  haven't  really  looked  at  my  clothes,  Jane, 
Why  did  you  go  back  to  calling  yourself  Jane?" 

"Because  it's  my  name,"  replied  her  sister. 

"I  know  that.  But  you  hated  it  and  changed  it  to 
Jeanne,  which  is  so  much  prettier." 

"I  don't  think  so  any  more,"  replied  Miss  Hastings. 
"My  taste  has  improved.  Don't  be  so  horribly  middle 
class,  Martha — ashamed  of  everything  simple  and 
natural." 

"You  think  you  know  it  all — don't  you? — -just 
because  you've  lived  abroad,"  said  Martha  peev 
ishly. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  don't  know  one-tenth  as  much 
as  I  thought  I  did,  when  I  came  back  from  Wellesley 
with  a  diploma." 

33 


THE    CONFLICT 


"Do  you  like  my  costume?"  inquired  Martha,  eying 
her  finery  with  the  fond  yet  dubious  expression  of  the 
woman  who  likes  her  own  taste  but  is  not  sure  about  its 
being  good  taste. 

"What  a  lazy,  worthless  pair  we  are !"  exclaimed 
Jane,  hitting  her  boot  leg  a  tremendous  rap  with  her 
little  cane. 

Martha  startled.  "Good  God— Jane— what  is  it?" 
she  cried. 

"On  the  way  here  I  passed  a  lot  of  factories,"  pur 
sued  Jane.  "Why  should  those  people  have  to  work 
like — like  the  devil,  while  we  sit  about  planning  ball 
dresses  ?" 

Martha  settled  back  comfortably.  "I  feel  so  sorry 
for  those  poor  people,"  said  she,  absently  sympa 
thetic. 

"But  why?"  demanded  Jane.  "TF%?  Why  should 
we  be  allowed  to  idle  while  they  have  to  slave?  What 
have  we  done — what  are  we  doing — to  entitle  us  to 
ease?  What  have  they  done  to  condemn  them  to  pain 
and  toil?" 

"Y©u  know  very  well,  Jane,  that  we  represent  the 
finer  side  of  life." 

"Slop!"  ejaculated  Jane. 

"For  pity's  sake,  don't  let's  talk  politics,"  wailed 
Martha.  "I  know  nothing  about  politics.  I  haven't 
any  brains  for  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Is  that  politics?"  inquired  Jane.  "I  thought  poli 
tics  meant  whether  the  Democrats  or  the  Republicans 

34 


THE    CONFLICT 


or  the  reformers  were  to  get  the  offices  and  the  chance 
to  steal." 

"Everything's  politics,  nowadays,"  said  Martha, 
comparing  the  color  of  the  material  of  her  dress  with 
the  color  of  her  fat  white  arm.  "As  Hugo  says,  that 
Victor  Dorn  is  dragging  everything  into  politics — even 
our  private  business  of  how  we  make  and  spend  our 
own  money." 

Jane  sat  down  abruptly.  "Victor  Dorn,"  she  said 
in  a  strange  voice.  "Who  is  Victor  Dorn?  What  is 
Victor  Dorn?  It  seems  that  I  can  hear  of  nothing  but 
Victor  Dorn  to-day." 

"He's  too  low  to  talk  about,"  said  Martha,  amiable 
and  absent. 

"Why?" 

"Politics,"  replied  Martha.  "Really,  he  is  horrid, 
Jane." 

"To  look  at?" 

"No — not  to  look  at.  He's  handsome  in  a  way.  Not 
at  all  common  looking.  You  might  take  him  for  a 
gentleman,  if  you  didn't  know.  Still — he  always  dresses 
peculiarly — always  wears  soft  hats.  I  think  soft  hats 
are  so  vulgar — don't  you?" 

"How  hopelessly  middle-class  you  are,  Martha," 
mocked  Jane. 

"Hugo  would  as  soon  think  of  going  in  the  street  in 
a — in  a — I  don't  know  what." 

"Hugo  is  the  finest  flower  of  American  gentleman. 
That  is,  he's  the  quintessence  of  everything  that's  nice 

35 


THE   CONFLICT 


— and  'nasty.'  I  wish  I  were  married  to  him  for  a 
week.  I  love  Hugo,  but  he  gives  me  the  creeps."  She 
rose  and  tramped  restlessly  about  the  room.  "You 
both  give  me  the  creeps.  Everything  conventional 
gives  me  the  creeps.  If  I'm  not  careful  I'll  dress  my 
self  in  a  long  shirt,  let  down  my  hair  and  run  wild." 

"What  nonsense  you  do  talk,"  said  Martha  com 
posedly. 

Jane  sat  down  abruptly.  "So  I  do !"  she  said.  "I'm 
as  poor  a  creature  as  you  at  bottom.  I  simply  like  to 
beat  against  the  bars  of  my  cage  to  make  myself  think 
I'm  a  wild,  free  bird  by  nature.  If  you  opened  the 
door,  I'd  not  fly  out,  but  would  hop  meekly  back  to  my 
perch  and  fall  to  smoothing  my  feathers.  .  .•£,.•*-» 
Tell  me  some  more  about  Victor  Dorn." 

"I  told  you  he  isn't  fit  to  talk  about,"  said  Martha. 
"Do  you  know,  they  say  now  that  he  is  carrying  on 
with  that  shameless,  brazen  thing  who  writes  for  his 
paper,  that  Selma  Gordon?" 

"Selma  Gordon,"  echoed  Jane.  Her  brows  came 
down  in  a  gesture  reminiscent  of  her  father,  and  there 
was  a  disagreeable  expression  about  her  mouth  and  in 
her  light  brown  eyes.  "Who's  Selma  Gordon?" 

"She  makes  speeches — and  writes  articles  against 
rich  people — and — oh,  she's  horrid." 

"Pretty?" 

"No — a  scrawny,  black  thing.  The  men — -some  of 
them — say  she's  got  a  kind  of  uncanny  fascination. 
Some  even  insist  that  she's  beautiful."  Martha 

36 


THE   CONFLICT 


laughed.  "Beautiful!  How  could  a  woman  with  black 
hair  and  a  dark  skin  and  no  flesh  on  her  bones  be- 
beautiful?" 

"It  has  been  known  to  happen,"  said  Jane  curtly. 
"Is  she  one  of  the  Gordons?" 

"Mercy,  no!"  cried  Martha  Galland.  "She  simply 
took  the  name  of  Gordon — that  is,  her  father  did. 
He  was  a  Russian  peasant — a  Jew.  And  he  fell  in 
love  with  a  girl  who  was  of  noble  family — a  princess, 
I  think." 

"Princess  doesn't  mean  much  in  Russia,"  said  Jane 
sourly. 

"Anyhow,  they  ran  away  to  this  country.  And  he 
worked  in  the  rolling  mill  here — and  they  both  died — 
and  Selma  became  a  factory  girl — and  then  took  to 
writing  for  the  New  Day — that's  Victor  Dorn's  paper, 
you  know." 

"How  romanfic,"  said  Jane  sarcastically.  "And  now 
Victor  Dorn's  in  love  with  her?" 

"I  didn't  say  that,"  replied  Martha,  with  a  scandal- 
smile. 

Jane  Hastings  went  to  the  window  and  gazed  out 
into  the  garden.  Martha  resumed  her  habitual  warm 
day  existence — sat  rocking  gently  and  fanning  herself 
and  looking  leisurely  about  the  room.  Presently  she 
said: 

"Jane,  why  don't  you  marry  Davy  Hull?" 

No  answer. 

"He's  got  an  independent  income — so  there's  no 

37 


THE   CONFLICT 


question  of  his  marrying  for  money.  And  there  isn't 
any  family  anywhere  that's  better  than  his — mighty 
few  as  good.  And  he's  dead  in  love  with  you,  Jen." 

With  her  back  still  turned  Jane  snapped,  "I'd  rather 
marry  Victor  Dorn." 

"What  outrageous  things  you  do  say !"  cried  Martha. 

"I  envy  that  black  Jewess — that — what's  her  name? 
— that  Selma  Gordon." 

"You  don't  even  know  them,"  said  Martha. 

Jane  wheeled  round  with  a  strange  laugh.  "Don't 
I?"  cried  she.  "I  don't  know  anyone  else." 

She  strode  to  her  sister  and  tapped  her  lightly  on 
the  shoulder  with  the  riding  stick. 

"Be  careful,"  cautioned  Martha.  "You  know  how 
easily  my  flesh  mars— and  I'm  going  to  wear  my  low 
neck  to-night." 

Jane  did  not  heed.  "David  Hull  is  a  bore — and  a 
fraud,"  she  said.  "I  tell  you  I'd  rather  marry  Victor 
Dorn." 

"Do  be  careful  about  my  skin,  dear,"  pleaded  Martha. 
"Hugo'll  be  so  put  out  if  there's  a  mark  on  it.  He's 
very  proud  of  my  skin." 

Jane  looked  at  her  quizzically.  "What  a  dear,  fat 
old  rotter  of  a  respectability  it  is,  to  be  sure,"  said  she 
— and  strode  from  the  room,  and  from  the  house. 

Her  mood  of  perversity  and  defiance  did  not  yield  to 
a  ten  mile  gallop  over  the  gentle  hills  of  that  lovely 
part  of  Indiana,  but  held  on  through  the  afternoon  and 
controlled  her  toilet  for  the  ball.  She  knew  that  every 

38 


THE   CONFLICT 


girl  in  town  would  appear  at  that  most  fashionable 
party  of  the  summer  season  in  the  best  clothing  she 
could  get  together.  As  she  had  several  dresses  from 
Paris  which  she  not  without  reason  regarded  as  notable 
works  of  art,  the  opportunity  to  outshine  was  hers — 
the  sort  of  opportunity  she  took  pleasure  in  using  to  the 
uttermost,  as  a  rule.  But  to  be  the  best  dressed  woman 
at  Mrs.  Bertram's  party  was  too  easy  and  too  common 
place.  To  be  the  worst  dressed  would  call  for  courage 
— of  just  the  sort  she  prided  herself  on  having.  Also, 
it  would  look  original,  would  cause  talk — would  give 
her  the  coveted  sense  of  achievement. 

When  she  descended  to  show  herself  to  her  father 
and  say  good  night  to  him,  she  was  certainly  dressed  by 
the  same  pattern  that  caused  him  to  be  talked  about 
throughout  that  region.  Her  gown  was  mussed,  had 
been  mended  obviously  in  several  places,  had  not  been 
in  its  best  day  becoming.  But  this  was  not  all.  Her 
hair  looked  stringy  and  dishevelled.  She  was  delighted 
with  herself.  Except  during  an  illness  two  years  before 
never  had  she  come  so  near  to  being  downright  homely. 
"Martha  will  die  of  shame,"  said  she  to  herself.  "And 
Mrs.  Bertram  will  spend  the  evening  explaining  me  to 
everybody."  She  did  not  definitely  formulate  the 
thought,  "And  I  shall  be  the  most  talked  about  person 
of  the  evening" ;  but  it  was  in  her  mind  none  the  less. 

Her  father  always  smoked  his  after-dinner  cigar  in  a 
little  room  just  off  the  library.  It  was  filled  up  with  the 
plain  cheap  furniture  and  the  chromos  and  mottoes 

39 


THE   CONFLICT 


which  he  and  his  wife  had  bought  when  they  first  went 
to  housekeeping — in  their  early  days  of  poverty  and 
struggle.  On  the  south  wall  was  a  crude  and  cheap,  but 
startlingly  large  enlargement  of  an  old  daguerreotype 
of  Letitia  Hastings  at  twenty-four — the  year  after  her 
marriage  and  the  year  before  the  birth  of  the  oldest 
child,  Robert,  called  Dock,  now  piling  up  a  fortune  as 
an  insider  in  the  Chicago  "brave"  game  of  wheat  and 
pork,  which  it  is  absurd  to  call  gambling  because  gam 
bling  involves  chance.  To  smoke  the  one  cigar  the 
doctor  allowed  him,  old  Martin  Hastings  always  seated 
himself  before  this  picture.  He  found  it  and  his 
thoughts  the  best  company  in  the  world,  just  as  he  had 
found  her  silent  self  and  her  thoughts  the  best  company 
in  their  twenty-one  years  of  married  life.  As  he  sat 
there,  sometimes  he  thought  of  her — of  what  they  had 
been  through  together,  of  the  various  advances  in  his 
fortune — how  this  one  had  been  made  near  such  and 
such  anniversary,  and  that  one  between  two  other  anni 
versaries — and  what  he  had  said  to  her  and  what  she 
had  said  to  him.  Again — perhaps  oftener — he  did  not 
think  of  her  directly,  any  more  than  he  had  thought  of 
her  when  they  sat  together  evening  after  evening,  year 
in  and  year  out,  through  those  twenty-one  years  of 
contented  and  prosperous  life. 

As  Jane  entered  he,  seated  back  to  the  door,  said : 

"About  that  there  Dora  damage  suit " 

Jane    started,   caught  her   breath.      Really,   it   was 
uncanny,  this  continual  thrusting  of  Victor  Dorn  at  her. 

40 


THE   CONFLICT 


"It  wasn't  so  bad  as  it  looked,"  continued  her  father. 
He  was  speaking  in  the  quiet  voice — quiet  and  old  and 
sad — he  always  used  when  seated  before  the  picture. 

"You  see,  Jenny,  in  them  days" — also,  in  presence  of 
the  picture  he  lapsed  completely  into  the  dialect  of 
his  youth — "in  them  days  the  railroad  was  teetering 
and  I  couldn't  tell  which  way  things'd  jump.  Every 
cent  counted." 

"I  understand  perfectly,  father,"  said  Jane,  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders  from  behind.  She  felt  immense 
ly  relieved.  She  did  not  realize  that  every  doer  of  a 
mean  act  always  has  an  excellent  excuse  for  it. 

"Then  afterwards,"  the  old  man  went  on,  "the  family 
was  getting  along  so  well — the  boy  was  working  steady 
and  making  good  money  and  pushing  ahead — and  I  was 
afeared  I'd  do  harm  instead  of  good.  It's  mighty  dan 
gerous,  Jen,  to  give  money  sudden  to  folks  that  ain't 
used  to  it.  I've  seen  many  a  smash-up  come  that  way. 
And  your  ma — she  thought  so,  too — kind  of." 

The  "kind  of"  was  advanced  hesitatingly,  with  an 
apologetic  side  glance  at  the  big  crayon  portrait.  But 
Jane  was  entirely  convinced.  She  was  average  human ; 
therefore,  she  believed  what  she  wished  to  believe. 

"You  were  quite  right,  father,"  said  she.  "I  knew 
you  couldn't  do  a  bad  thing — wouldn't  deliberately 
strike  at  weak,  helpless  people.  And  now,  it  can  be 
straightened  out  and  the  Dorns  will  be  all  the  better 
for  not  having  been  tempted  in  the  days  when  it  might 
have  ruined  them." 

41 


THE    CONFLICT 


She  had  walked  round  where  her  father  could  see  her, 
as  she  delivered  herself  of  this  speech  so  redolent  of 
the  fumes  of  collegiate  smugness.  He  proceeded  to  ex 
amine  her — with  an  expression  of  growing  dissatisfac 
tion.  Said  he  fretfully: 

"You  don't  calculate  to  go  out,  looking  like  that  ?" 

"Out  to  the  swellest  blow-out  of  the  year,  popsy," 
said  she. 

The  big  heavy  looking  head  wobbled  about  uneasily. 
"You  look  too  much  like  your  old  pappy's  daughter," 
said  he. 

"I  can  afford  to,"  replied  she. 

The  head  shook  positively.  "You  ma  wouldn't  'a 
liked  it.  She  was  mighty  partic'lar  how  she  dressed." 

Jane  laughed  gayly.  "Why,  when  did  you  become  a 
critic  of  women's  dress  ?"  cried  she. 

"I  always  used  to  buy  yer  ma  dresses  and  hats  when 
I  went  to  the  city,"  said  he.  "And  she  looked  as  good 
as  the  best — not  for  these  days,  but  for  them  times." 
He  looked  critically  at  the  portrait.  "I  bought  them 
clothes — and  awful  dear  they  seemed  to  me."  His 
glance  returned  to  his  daughter.  "Go  get  yourself  up 
proper,"  said  he,  between  request  and  command.  ''She 
wouldn't  'a  liked  it." 

Jane  gazed  at  the  common  old  crayon,  suddenly 
flung  her  arms  round  the  old  man's  neck.  "Yes — 
father,"  she  murmured.  "To  please  her." 

She  fled;  the  old  man  wiped  his  eyes,  blew  his  nose 
and  resumed  the  careful  smoking  of  the  cheap,  smelly 

42 


THE   CONFLICT 


cigar.  He  said  he  preferred  that  brand  of  his  days  of 
poverty;  and  it  was  probably  true,  as  he  would  refuse 
better  cigars  offered  him  by  fastidious  men  who  hoped 
to  save  themselves  from  the  horrors  of  his.  He  waited 
restlessly,  though  it  was  long  past  his  bedtime;  he 
yawned  and  pretended  to  listen  while  Davy  Hull,  who 
had  called  for  Jane  in  the  Hull  brougham,  tried  to  make 
a  favorable  impression  upon  him.  At  last  Jkne  reap 
peared — and  certainly  Letitia  Hastings  would  have  been 
more  than  satisfied. 

"Sorry  to  keep  you  waiting,"  said  she  to  Hull,  who 
was  speechless  and  tremulous  before  her  voluptuous 
radiance.  "But  father  didn't  like  the  way  I  was  rigged 
out.  Maybe  I'll  have  to  change  again." 

"Take  her  along,  Davy,"  said  Hastings,  his  big  head 
wagging  with  delight.  "She's  a  caution — she  is  !" 

Hull  could  not  control  himself  to  speak.  As  they  sat 
in  the  carriage,  she  finishing  the  pulling  on  of  her 
gloves,  he  stared  out  into  the  heavy  rain  that  was 
deluging  the  earth  and  bending  low  the  boughs.  Said 
she,  half  way  down  the  hill : 

"Well — can't  you  talk  about  anything  but  Victor 
Dorn?" 

"I  saw  him  this  afternoon,"  said  Hull,  glad  that  the 
tension  of  the  silence  was  broken. 

"Then  you've  got  something  to  talk  about." 

"The  big  street  car  strike  is  on." 

"So  father  said  at  dinner.  I  suppose  Victor  Dorn 
caused  it." 

4,3 


THE   CONFLICT 


"No — he's  opposed  to  it.  He's  queer.  I  don't  ex 
actly  understand  his  ideas.  He  says  strikes  are  ridicu 
lous — that  it's  like  trying  to  cure  smallpox  by  healing 
up  one  single  sore." 

Jane  gave  a  shiver  of  lady-like  disgust.  "How — 
nasty,"  said  she. 

"I'm  telling  you  what  he  said.  But  he  says  that  the 
only  way  human  beings  learn  how  to  do  things  right 
is  by  doing  them  wrong — so  while  he's  opposed  to 
strikes  he's  also  in  favor  of  them." 

"Even  /  understand  that,"  said  Jane.  "I  don't  think 
it's  difficult." 

"Doesn't  it  strike  you  as — as  inconsistent?" 

"Oh— bother  consistency !"  scoffed  the  girl.  "That's 
another  middle  class  virtue  that  sensible  people  loathe 
as  a  vice." 

Anyhow,  he's  helping  the  strikers  all  he  can — and 
fighting  us.  You  know,  your  father  and  my  father's 
estate  are  the  two  biggest  owners  of  the  street  railways." 

"I  must  get  his  paper,"  said  Jane.  "I'll  have  a  lot 
of  fun  reading  the  truth  about  us." 

But  David  wasn't  listening.  He  was  deep  in  thought. 
After  a  while  he  said:  "It's  amazing — and  splendid — 
and  terrible,  what  power  he's  getting  in  our  town. 
Victor  Dorn,  I  mean." 

"Always  Victor  Dorn,"  mocked  Jane. 

"When  he  started — twelve  years  ago  as  a  boy  of 
twenty,  just  out  of  college  and  working  as  a  carpenter 
— when  he  started,  he  was  alone  and  poor,  and  without 

44 


THE   CONFLICT 


friends  or  anything.  He  built  up  little  by  little,  win 
ning  one  man  at  a  time — the  fellow  working  next  him 
on  his  right,  then  the  chap  working  on  his  left — in  the 
shop — and  so  on,  one  man  after  another.  And  when 
ever  he  got  a  man  he  held  him — made  him  as  devoted — 
as — as  fanatical  as  he  is  himself.  Now  he's  got  a  band 
of  nearly  a  thousand.  There  are  ten  thousand  voters 
in  this  town.  So,  he's  got  only  one  in  ten.  But  what  a 
thousand !" 

Jane  was  gazing  out  into  the  rain,  her  eyes  bright* 
her  lips  parted. 

"Are  you  listening?"  asked  Hull.  "Or,  am  I  bor 
ing  you  ?" 

"Go  on,"  said  she. 

"They're  a  thousand  missionaries — apostles — yes, 
apostle  is  the  name  for  them.  They  live  and  breathe 
and  think  and  talk  only  the  ideas  Victor  Dorn  believes 
and  fights  for.  And  whenever  he  wants  anything  done 
— anything  for  the  cause — why,  there  are  a  thousand 
men  ready  to  do  it." 

"Why?"  said  Jane. 

"Victor  Dorn,"  said  Hull.  "Do  you  wonder  that  he 
interests  me?  For  instance,  to-night:  you  see  how  it's 
raining.  Well,  Victor  Dorn  had  them  print  to-day  fifty 
thousand  leaflets  about  this  strike — what  it  means  to 
his  cause.  And  he  Has  asked  five  hundred  of  his  men 
to  stand  on  the  corners  and  patrol  the  streets  and 
distribute  those  dodgers.  I'll  bet  not  a  man  will  be 
missing." 

4  45 


THE   CONFLICT 


"But  why  ?"  repeated  Jane.    "What  for  ?" 

"He  wants  to  conquer  this  town.  He  says  the  world 
has  to  be  conquered — and  that  the  way  to  begin  is  to 
begin — and  that  he  has  begun." 

"Conquer  it  for  what  ?" 

"For  himself,  I  guess,"  said  Hull.  "Of  course,  he 
professes  that  it's  for  the  public  good.  They  all  do. 
But  what's  the  truth?" 

"If  I  saw  him  I  could  tell  you,"  said  Jane  in  the  full 
pride  of  her  belief  in  her  woman's  power  of  divination  in 
character. 

"However,  he  can't  succeed,"  observed  Hull. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  can,"  replied  Jane.  "And  will.  Even 
if  every  idea  he  had  were  foolish  and  wrong.  And  it 
isn't— is  it?" 

David  laughed  peculiarly.  "He's  infernally  uncom 
fortably  right  in  most  of  the  things  he  charges  and 
proposes.  I  don't  like  to  think  about  it."  He  shut 
his  teeth  together.  "I  won't  think  about  it,"  he  mut 
tered. 

"No — you'd  better  stick  to  your  own  road,  Davy," 
said  Jane  with  irritating  mockery.  "You  were  born  to 
be  thoroughly  conventional  and  respectable.  As  a  re 
former  you're  ideal.  As  a — an  imitator  of  Victor  Dorn, 
you'd  be  a  joke." 

"There's  one  of  his  men  now,"  exclaimed  Hull,  lean 
ing  forward  excitedly. 

Jane  looked.  A  working  man,  a  commonplace  enough 
object,  was  standing  under  the  corner  street  lamp,  the 

46 


THE    CONFLICT 


water  running  off  his  hat,  his  shoulders,  his  coat  tail. 
His  package  of  dodgers  was  carefully  shielded  by  an 
oilcloth  from  the  wet  which  had  full  swing  at  the  man. 
To  every  passer-by  he  presented  a  dodger,  accompany 
ing  the  polite  gesture  with  some  phrase  which  seemed 
to  move  the  man  or  woman  to  take  what  was  offered 
and  to  put  it  away  instead  of  dropping  it. 

Jane  sank  back  in  the  carriage,  disappointed.  "Is 
that  all?"  said  she  disdainfully. 

"All?"  cried  Hull.  "Use  your  imagination,  Jen.  But 
I  forgot — you're  a  woman.  They  see  only  surfaces." 

"And  are  snared  into  marrying  by  complexions  and 
pretty  features  and  dresses  and  silly  flirting  tricks," 
retorted  the  girl  sarcastically. 

Hull  laughed.  "I  spoke  too  quick  that  time,"  said 
he.  "I  suppose  you  expected  to  see  something  out  of  a 
fifteenth  century  Italian  old  master!  Well — it  was 
there,  all  right." 

Jane  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "And  your  Victor 
Dorn,"  said  she,  "no  doubt  he's  seated  in  some  dry, 
comfortable  place  enjoying  the  thought  of  his  men  mak 
ing  fools  of  themselves  for  him." 

They  were  drawing  up  to  the  curb  before  the  Opera 
House  where  were  the  assembly  rooms.  "There  he  is 
now,"  cried  Hull. 

Jane,  startled,  leaned  eagerly  forward.  In  the  rain 
beyond  the  edge  of  the  awning  stood  a  dripping  figure 
not  unlike  that  other  which  had  so  disappointed  her. 
Underneath  the  brim  of  the  hat  she  could  see  a  smooth- 

47 


THE   CONFLICT 


shaven  youngish  face — almost  boyish.  But  the  rain 
streaming  from  the  brim  made  satisfactory  scrutiny  im 
possible. 

Jane  again  sank  back.  "How  many  carriages  before 
us  ?"  she  said. 

"You're  disappointed  in  him,  too,  I  suppose,"  said 
Hull.  "I  knew  you  would  be." 

"I  thought  he  was  tall,"  said  Jane. 

"Only  middling,"  replied  Hull,  curiously  delighted. 

"I  thought  he  was  serious,"  said  Jane. 

"On  the  contrary,  he's  always  laughing.  He's  the 
best  natured  man  I  know." 

As  they  descended  and  started  along  the  carpet  under 
the  middle  of  the  awning,  Jane  halted.  She  glanced 
toward  the  dripping  figure  whom  the  police  would  not 
permit  under  the  shelter.  Said  she:  "I  want  one  of 
those  papers." 

Davy  moved  toward  the  drenched  distributor  of  strike 
literature.  "Give  me  one,  Dorn,"  he  said  in  his  most 
elegant  manner. 

"Sure,  Davy,"  said  Dorn  in  a  tone  that  was  a  subtle 
commentary  on  Hull's  aristocratic  tone  and  manner. 
As  he  spoke  he  glanced  at  Jane ;  she  was  looking  at  him. 
Both  smiled — at  Davy's  expense. 

Davy  and  Jane  passed  on  in,  Jane  folding  the  dodger 
to  tuck  it  away  for  future  reading.  She  said  to  him: 
"But  you  didn't  tell  me  about  his  eyes." 

"What's  the  matter  with  them?" 

"Everything,"  replied  she — and  said  no  more. 

48 


II 


The  dance  was  even  more  tiresome  than  Jane  had 
anticipated.  There  had  been  little  pleasure  in  outshin 
ing  the  easily  outshone  belles  of  Remsen  City.  She  had 
felt  humiliated  by  having  to  divide  the  honors  with  a 
brilliantly  beautiful  and  scandalously  audacious  Chicago 
girl,  a  Yvonne  Hereford — whose  style,  in  looks,  in 
dress  and  in  wit,  was  more  comfortable  to  the  standard 
of  the  best  young  men  of  Remsen  City — a  standard 
which  Miss  Hastings,  cultivated  by  foreign  travel  and 
social  adventure,  regarded  as  distinctly  poor,  not  to 
say  low.  Miss  Hereford's  audacities  were  especially  of 
fensive  to  Jane.  Jane  was  audacious  herself,  but  she 
flattered  herself  that  she  had  a  delicate  sense  of  that 
baffling  distinction  between  the  audacity  that  is  the  hall 
mark  of  the  lady  and  the  audacity  that  proclaims  the 
not-lady.  For  example,  in  such  apparently  trifling 
matters  as  the  way  of  smoking  a  cigarette,  the  way  of 
crossing  the  legs  or  putting  the  elbows  on  the  table  or 
using  slang,  Jane  found  a  difference,  abysmal  though 
narrow,  between  herself  and  Yvonne  Hereford.  "But 
then,  her  very  name  gives  her  away,"  reflected  Jane. 
"There'd  surely  be  a  frightfully  cheap  streak  in  a 
mother  who  in  this  country  would  name  her  daughter 
Yvonne — or  in  a  girl  who  would  name  herself  that." 

49 


THE   CONFLICT 


However,  Jane  Hastings  was  not  deeply  annoyed 
either  by  the  shortcomings  of  Remsen  City  young  men 
or  by  the  rivalry  of  Miss  Hereford.  Her  dissatisfaction 
was  personal — the  feeling  of  futility,  of  cheapness,  in 
having  dressed  herself  in  her  best  and  spent  a  whole 
evening  at  such  unworthy  business.  "Whatever  I  am 
or  am  not  fit  for,"  said  she  to  herself,  "I'm  not  for 
society — any  kind  of  society.  At  least  I'm  too  much 
grown-up  mentally  for  that."  Her  disdainful  thoughts 
about  others  were,  on  this  occasion  as  almost  always, 
merely  a  mode  of  expressing  her  self-scorn. 

As  she  was  undressing  she  found  in  her  party  bag 
the  dodger  Hull  had  got  for  her  from  Victor  Dorn. 
She,  sitting  at  her  dressing  table,  started  to  read  it 
at  once.  But  her  attention  soon  wandered.  "I'm  not 
in  the  mood,"  she  said.  "To-morrow."  And  she  tossed 
it  into  the  top  drawer.  The  fact  was,  the  subject  of 
politics  interested  her  only  when  some  man  in  whom 
she  was  interested  was  talking  it  to  her.  In  a  general 
way  she  understood  things  political,  but  like  almost 
all  women  and  all  but  a  few  men  she  could  fasten  her 
attention  only  on  things  directly  and  clearly  and  nearly 
related  to  her  own  interests.  Politics  seemed  to  her  to 
be  not  at  all  related  to  her — or,  indeed,  to  anybody  but 
the  men  running  for  office.  This  dodger  was  politics, 
pure  and  simple.  A  plea  to  workingmen  to  awaken 
to  the  fact  that  their  strikes  were  stupid  and  wasteful, 
that  the  way  to  get  better  pay  and  decent  hours  of 
labor  was  by  uniting,  taking  possession  of  the  power 

50 


THE   CONFLICT 


that  was  rightfully  theirs  and  regulating  their  own 
affairs. 

She  resumed  fixing  her  hair  for  the  night.  Her 
glance  bent  steadily  downward  at  one  stage  of  this 
performance,  rested  unseeingly  upon  the  handbill  folded 
printed  side  out  and  on  top  of  the  contents  of  the  open 
drawer.  She  happened  to  see  two  capital  letters — 
S.  G. — in  a  line  by  themselves  at  the  end  of  the  print. 
She  repeated  them  mechanically  several  times — "S.  G. 
— S.  G. — S.  G." — then  her  hands  fell  from  her  hair 
upon  the  handbill.  She  settled  herself  to  read  in 
earnest. 

"Selma  Gordon,"  she  said.     "That's  different." 

She  would  have  had  some  difficulty  in  explaining  to 
herself  why  it  was  "different."  She  read  closely,  con- 
centratedly  now.  She  tried  to  read  in  an  attitude  of 
unfriendly  criticism,  but  she  could  not.  A  dozen  lines, 
and  the  clear,  earnest,  honest  sentences  had  taken  hold 
of  her.  How  sensible  the  statements  were,  and  how 
obviously  true.  Why,  it  wasn't  the  writing  of  an 
"anarchistic  crank"  at  all — on  the  contrary,  the  writer 
was  if  anything  more  excusing  toward  the  men  who 
were  giving  the  drivers  and  motormen  a  dollar  and  ten 
cents  a  day  for  fourteen  hours'  work — "fourteen 
hours !"  cried  Jane,  her  cheeks  burning — yes,  Selma 
Gordon  was  more  tolerant  of  the  owners  of  the  street 
car  line  than  Jane  herself  would  have  been. 

When  Jane  had  read,  she  gazed  at  the  print  with 
sad  envy  in  her  eyes.  "Selma  Gordon  can  think — and 

51 


THE    CONFLICT 


she  can  write,  too,"  said  she  half  aloud.  "I  want  to 
know  her — too." 

That  "too"  was  the  first  admission  to  herself  of  a 
curiously  intense  desire  to  meet  Victor  Dorn. 

"Oh,  to  be  in  earnest  about  something!  To  have  a 
real  interest!  To  find  something  to  do  besides  the  nur 
sery  games  disguised  under  new  forms  for  the  grown-up 
yet  never  to  be  grown-up  infants  of  the  world.  "And 
that  kind  of  politics  doesn't  sound  shallow  and  dull. 
There's  heart  in  it — and  brains — real  brains — not 
merely  nasty  little  self-seeking  cunning."  She  took  up 
the  handbill  again  and  read  a  paragraph  set  in  bolder 
type: 

"The  reason  we  of  the  working  class  are  slaves  is 
because  we  haven't  intelligence  enough  to  be  our  own 
masters,  let  alone  masters  of  anybody  else.  The  talk 
of  equality,  workingmen,  is  nonsense  to  flatter  your 
silly,  ignorant  vanity.  We  are  not  the  equals  of  our 
masters.  They  know  more  than  we  do,  and  naturally 
they  use  that  knowledge  to  make  us  work  for  them. 
So,  even  if  you  win  in  this  strike  or  in  all  your  strikes, 
you  will  not  much  better  yourselves.  Because  you  are 
ignorant  and  foolish,  your  masters  will  scheme  around 
and  take  from  you  in  some  other  way  what  you  have 
wrenched  from  them  in  the  strike. 

"Organize!  Think!  Learn!  Then  you  will  rise  out 
of  the  dirt  where  you  wallow  with  your  wives  and  your 
children.  Don't  blame  your  masters  ;  they  don't  enslave 
you.  They  don't  keep  you  in  slavery.  Your  chains 

52 


THE    CONFLICT 


are  of  your  own  forging  and  only  you  can  strike 
them  off !" 

Certainly  no  tenement  house  woman  could  be  lazier, 
emptier  of  head,  more  inane  of  life  than  her  sister 
Martha.  "She  wouldn't  even  keep  clean  if  it  wasn't 
the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  for  her  to  do,  and  a  help 
at  filling  in  her  long  idle  day."  Yet — Martha  Galland 
had  every  comfort  and  most  of  the  luxuries,  was  as 
sheltered  from  all  the  hardships  as  a  hot-house  flower. 
Then  there  was  Hugo — to  go  no  further  afield  than 
the  family.  Had  he  ever  done  an  honest  hour's  work 
in  his  life?  Could  anyone  have  less  brains  than  he? 
Yet  Hugo  was  rich  and  respected,  was  a  director  in 
big  corporations,  was  a  member  of  a  first-class  law  firm. 
"It  isn't  fair,"  thought  the  girl.  "I've  always  felt  it. 
I  see  now  why.  It's  a  bad  system  of  taking  from  the 
many  for  the  benefit  of  us  few.  And  it's  kept  going  by 
a  few  clever,  strong  men  like  father.  They  work  for 
themselves  and  their  families  and  relatives  and  for  their 
class — and  the  rest  of  the  people  have  to  suffer." 

She  did  not  fall  asleep  for  several  hours,  such  was 
the  tumult  in  her  aroused  brain.  The  first  thing  the 
next  morning  she  went  down  town,  bought  copies  of 
the  New  Day — for  that  week  and  for  a  few  preceding 
weeks — and  retreated  to  her  favorite  nook  in  her 
father's  grounds  to  read  and  to  think — and  to  plan. 
She  searched  the  New  Day  in  vain  for  any  of  the 
wild,  wandering  things  Davy  and  her  father  had  told 
her  Victor  Dorn  was  putting  forth.  The  four  pages  of 

53 


THE    CONFLICT 


each  number  were  given  over  either  to  philosophical 
articles  no  more  "anarchistic"  than  Emerson's  essays, 
not  so  much  so  as  Carlyle's,  or  to  plain  accounts  of  the 
current  stealing  by  the  politicians  of  Remsen  City,  of 
the  squalor  and  disease-danger  in  the  tenements,  of  the 
outrages  by  the  gas  and  water  and  street  car  com 
panies.  There  was  much  that  was  terrible,  much  that 
was  sad,  much  that  was  calculated  to  make  an  honest 
heart  burn  with  indignation  against  those  who  were 
cheerily  sacrificing  the  whole  community  to  their  desire 
for  profits  and  dividends  and  graft,  public  and  private. 
But  there  was  also  a  great  deal  of  humor — of  rather  a 
sardonic  kind,  but  still  seeing  the  fantastic  side  of  this 
grand  game  of  swindle. 

Two  paragraphs  made  an  especial  impression  on  her : 

"Remsen  City  is  no  worse — and  no  better — than  other 
American  cities.  It's  typical.  But  we  who  live  here 
needn't  worry  about  the  rest  of  the  country.  The  thing 
for  us  to  do  is  to  clean  up  at  home" 

"We  are  more  careful  than  any  paper  in  this  town 
about  verifying  every  statement  we  make,  before  we 
make  it.  If  we  should  publish  a  single  statement  about 
anyone  that  was  false  even  in  part  we  would  be  sup 
pressed.  The  judges,  the  bosses,  the  owners  of  the  big 
blood-sucking  public  service  corporations,  the  whole 
ruling  class,  are  eager  to  put  us  out  of  existence.  Don't 
forget  this  fact  when  you  hear  the  New  Day  called  a 
lying,  demagogical  sheet." 

With  the  paper  beside  her  on  the  rustic  bench,  she 

54 


THE    CONFLICT 


fell  to  dreaming — not  of  a  brighter  and  better  world, 
of  a  wiser  and  freer  race,  but  of  Victor  Dorn,  the  per 
sonality  that  had  unaided  become  such  a  power  in 
Remsen  City,  the  personality  that  sparkled  and  glowed 
in  the  interesting  pages  of  the  New  Day,  that  made 
its  sentences  read  as  if  they  were  spoken  into  your  very 
ears  by  an  earnest,  honest  voice  issuing  from  a  fascinat 
ing,  humor-loving,  intensely  human  and  natural  person 
before  your  very  eyes.  But  it  was  not  round  Victor 
Dorn's  brain  that  her  imagination  played. 

"After  all,"  thought  she,  "Napoleon  wasn't  much  over 
five  feet.  Most  of  the  big  men  have  been  little  men. 
Of  course,  there  were  Alexander — and  Washington — 
and  Lincoln,  but — how  silly  to  bother  about  a  few 
inches  of  height,  more  or  less!  And  he  wasn't  really 
short.  Let  me  see — how  high  did  he  come  on  Davy 
when  Davy  was  standing  near  him  ?  Above  his  shoulder 
— and  Davy's  six  feet  two  or  three.  He's  at  least  as 
tall  as  I  am — anyhow,  in  my  ordinary  heels." 

She  was  attracted  by  both  the  personalities  she  dis 
covered  in  the  little  journal.  She  believed  she  could 
tell  them  apart.  About  some  of  the  articles,  the  shorter 
ones,  she  was  doubtful.  But  in  those  of  any  length  she 
could  feel  that  difference  which  enables  one  to  distin 
guish  the  piano  touch  of  a  player  in  another  room — 
whether  it  is  male  or  female.  Presently  she  was  search 
ing  for  an  excuse  for  scraping  acquaintance  with  this 
pair  of  pariahs — pariahs  so  far  as  her  world  was  con 
cerned.  And  soon  she  found  it.  The  New  Day  was 

55 


THE   CONFLICT 


taking  subscriptions  for  a  fund  to  send  sick  children 
and  their  mothers  to  the  country  for  a  vacation  from 
the  dirt  and  heat  of  the  tenements — for  Remsen  City, 
proud  though  it  was  and  boastful  of  its  prosperity, 
housed  most  of  its  inhabitants  in  slums — though  of 
course  that  low  sort  of  people  oughtn't  really  to  be 
counted — except  for  purposes  of  swelling  census  fig 
ures — and  to  do  all  the  rough  and  dirty  work  necessary 
to  keep  civilization  going. 

She  would  subscribe  to  this  worthy  charity — and 
would  take  her  subscription,  herself.  Settled — easily 
and  well  settled.  She  did  not  involve  herself,  or  commit 
herself  in  any  way.  Besides,  those  who  might  find  out 
and  might  think  she  had  overstepped  the  bounds  would 
excuse  her  on  the  ground  that  she  had  not  been  back 
at  home  long  and  did  not  realize  what  she  was  doing. 

What  should  she  wear? 

Her  instinct  was  for  an  elaborate  toilet — a  descent 
in  state — or  such  state  as  the  extremely  limited  re 
sources  of  Martin  Hastings'  stables  would  permit.  The 
traps  he  had  ordered  for  her  had  not  yet  come ;  she 
had  been  glad  to  accept  David  Hull's  offer  of  a  lift 
the  night  before.  Still,  without  a  carriage  or  a  motor 
she  could  make  quite  an  impression  with  a  Paris  walk 
ing  dress  and  hat,  properly  supported  by  fashionable 
accessories  of  the  toilet.  Good  sense  and  good  taste 
forbade  these  promptings  of  nature.  No,  she  would 
dress  most  simply — in  her  very  plainest  things — taking 
care  to  maintain  all  her  advantages  of  face  and  figure. 

56 


THE   CONFLICT 


If  she  overwhelmed  Dorn  and  Miss  Gordon,  she  would 
defeat  her  own  purpose — would  not  become  acquainted 
with  them. 

In  the  end  she  rejected  both  courses  and  decided  for 
the  riding  costume.  The  reason  she  gave  for  this  deci 
sion — the  reason  she  gave  herself — was  that  the  riding 
costume  would  invest  the  call  with  an  air  of  accident, 
of  impulse.  The  real  reason. 

It  may  be  that  some  feminine  reader  can  guess  why 
she  chose  the  most  startling,  the  most  gracefully  becom 
ing,  the  most  artlessly  physical  apparel  in  her  ward 
robe. 

She  said  nothing  to  her  father  at  lunch  about  her 
plans.  Why  should  she  speak  of  them?  He  might 
oppose ;  also,  she  might  change  her  mind.  After  lunch 
she  set  out  on  her  usual  ride,  galloping  away  into  the 
hills — but  she  had  put  twenty-five  dollars  in  bills  in 
her  trousers  pocket.  She  rode  until  she  felt  that  her 
color  was  at  its  best,  and  then  she  made  for  town — a 
swift,  direct  ride,  her  heart  beating  high  as  if  she  were 
upon  a  most  daring  and  fateful  adventure.  Arid,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  never  in  her  life  had  she  done  anything 
that  so  intensely  interested  her.  She  felt  that  she  was 
for  the  first  time  slackening  rein  upon  those  uncon 
ventional  instincts,  of  unknown  strength  and  purpose, 
which  had  been  making  her  restless  with  their  vague 
stirrings. 

"How  silly  of  me !"  she  thought.  "I'm  doing  a  com 
monplace,  rather  common  thing — and  I'm  trying  to 

57 


THE   CONFLICT 


make  it  seem  a  daring,  romantic  adventure.  I  must 
be  hard  up  for  excitement !" 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  she  dropped  from 
her  horse  before  the  office  of  the  New  Day  and  gave  a 
boy  the  bridle.  "I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  she  ex 
plained.  It  was  a  two-story  frame  building,  dingy  and 
in  disrepair.  On  the  street  floor  was  a  grocery.  Access 
to  the  New  Day  was  by  a  rickety  stairway.  As  she 
ascended  this,  making  a  great  noise  on  its  unsteady 
boards  with  her  boots,  she  began  to  feel  cheap  and 
foolish.  She  recalled  what  Hull  had  said  in  the  car 
riage.  "No  doubt,"  replied  she,  "I'd  feel  much  the 
same  way  if  I  were  going  to  see  Jesus  Christ — a  car 
penter's  son,  sitting  in  some  hovel,  talking  with  his 
friends  the  fishermen  and  camel  drivers — not  to  speak 
of  the  women." 

The  New  Day  occupied  two  small  rooms — an  edi 
torial  work  room,  and  a  printing  work  room  behind  it. 
Jane  Hastings,  in  the  doorway  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  was  seeing  all  there  was  to  see.  In  the  editorial 
room  were  two  tables — kitchen  tables,  littered  with 
papers  and  journals,  as  was  the  floor,  also.  At  the 
table  directly  opposite  the  door  no  one  was  sitting — 
"Victor  Dorn's  desk,"  Jane  decided.  At  the  table  by 
the  open  window  sat  a  girl,  bent  over  her  writing. 
Jane  saw  that  the  figure  was  below,  probably  much 
below,  the  medium  height  for  woman,  that  it  was  slight 
and  strong,  that  it  was  clad  in  a  simple,  clean  gray 
linen  dress.  The  girl's  black  hair,  drawn  into  a  plain 

58 


THE   CONFLICT 


but  distinctly  graceful  knot,  was  of  that  dense  and 
wavy  thickness  which  is  a  characteristic  and  a  beauty 
of  the  Hebrew  race.  The  skin  at  the  nape  of  her 
neck,  on  her  hands,  on  her  arms  bare  to  the  elbows  was 
of  a  beautiful  dead-white — the  skin  that  so  admirably 
compliments  dead-black  hair. 

Before  disturbing  this  busy  writer  Jane  glanced 
round.  There  was  nothing  to  detain  her  in  the  view 
of  the  busy  printing  plant  in  the  room  beyond.  But 
on  the  walls  of  the  room  before  her  were  four  pictures 
— lithographs,  cheap,  not  framed,  held  in  place  by  a 
tack  at  each  corner.  There  was  Washington — then 
Lincoln — then  a  copy  of  Leonardo's  Jesus  in  the  Last 
Supper  fresco — and  a  fourth  face,  bearded,  powerful, 
imperious,  yet  wonderfully  kind  and  good  humored — 
a  face  she  did  not  know.  Pointing  her  riding  stick  at 
it  she  said : 

"And  who  is  that?" 

With  a  quick  but  not  in  the  least  a  startled  move 
ment  the  girl  at  the  table  straightened  her  form,  turned 
in  her  chair,  saying,  as  she  did  so,  without  having  seen 
the  pointing  stick : 

"That  is  Marx— Karl  Marx." 

Jane  was  so  astonished  by  the  face  she  was  now 
seeing — the  face  of  the  girl — that  she  did  not  hear 
the  reply.  The  girl's  hair  and  skin  had  reminded  her 
of  what  Martha  had  told  her  about  the  Jewish,  or 
half-Jewish,  origin  of  Selma  Gordon.  Thus,  she  as 
sumed  that  she  would  see  a  frankly  Jewish  face.  In- 

59 


THE   CONFLICT 


stead,  the  face  looking  at  her  from  beneath  the  wealth 
of  thick  black  hair,  carelessly  parted  near  the  centre, 
was  Russian — was  Cossack — strange  and  primeval,  in 
tense,  dark,  as  superbly  alive  as  one  of  those  exuberant 
tropical  flowers  that  seem  to  cry  out  the  mad  joy  of 
life.  Only,  those  flowers  suggest  the  evanescent,  the 
flame  burning  so  fiercely  that  it  must  soon  burn  out, 
while  this  Russian  girl  declared  that  life  was  eternal. 
You  could  not  think  of  her  as  sick,  as  old,  as  anything 
but  young  and  vigorous  and  vivid,  as  full  of  energy  as 
a  healthy  baby  that  kicks  its  dresses  into  rags  and 
wears  out  the  strength  of  its  strapping  nurse.  Her 
nose  was  as  straight  as  Jane's  own  particularly  fine 
example  of  nose.  Her  dark  gray  eyes,  beneath  long, 
slender,  coal  black  lines  of  brow,  were  brimming  with 
life  and  with  fun.  She  had  a  wide,  frank,  scarlet  mouth ; 
her  teeth  were  small  and  sharp  and  regular,  and  of 
the  strong  and  healthy  shade  of  white.  She  had  a  very 
small,  but  a  very  resolute  chin.  With  another  quick, 
free  movement  she  stood  up.  She  was  indeed  small,  but 
formed  in  proportion.  She  seemed  out  of  harmony  with 
her  linen  dress.  She  looked  as  if  she  ought  to  be 
careening  on  the  steppes  in  some  romantic,  half-savage 
costume.  Jane's  first  and  instant  thought  was,  "There's 
not  another  like  her  in  the  whole  world.  She's  the  only 
living  specimen  of  her  kind." 

"Gracious !"  exclaimed  Jane.    "But  you  are  healthy." 

The  smile  took  full  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to 

broaden  into  a  laugh.     A  most  flattering  expression  of 

60 


THE   CONFLICT 


frank,  childlike  admiration  came  into  the  dark  gray 
eyes.  "You're  not  sickly,  yourself,"  replied  Selma. 
Jane  was  disappointed  that  the  voice  was  not  untamed 
Cossack,  but  was  musically  civilized. 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  flaunt  it  as  you  do,"  rejoined  Jane. 
"You'd  make  anyone  who  was  the  least  bit  off, 
furious." 

Selma,  still  with  the  child-like  expression,  but  now 
one  of  curiosity,  was  examining  Jane's  masculine  riding 
dress.  "What  a  sensible  suit!"  she  cried,  delightedly. 
"I'd  wear  something  like  that  all  the  time,  if  I  dared." 

"Dared?"  said  Jane.  "You  don't  look  like  the 
frightened  sort." 

"Not  on  account  of  myself,"  explained  Selma.  "On 
account  of  the  cause.  You  see,  we  are  fighting  for  a 
new  idea.  So,  we  have  to  be  careful  not  to  offend 
people's  prejudices  about  ideas  not  so  important.  If 
we  went  in  for  everything  that's  sensible,  we'd  be 
regarded  as  cranks.  One  thing  at  a  time." 

Jane's  glance  shifted  to  the  fourth  picture.  "Didn't 
you  say  that  was — Karl  Marx?" 

"Yes." 

"He  wrote  a  book  on  political  economy.  I  tried  to 
read  it  at  college.  But  I  couldn't.  It  was  too  heavy 
for  me.  He  was  a  Socialist — wasn't  he? — the  founder 
of  Socialism?" 

"A  great  deal  more  than  that,"  replied  Selma.  "He 
was  the  most  important  man  for  human  liberty  that 
ever  lived — except  perhaps  one."  And  she  looked  at 
5  61 


THE    CONFLICT 


Leonardo's  "man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted  with 
grief." 

"Marx  was  a — a  Hebrew — wasn't  he?" 

Selma's  eyes  danced,  and  Jane  felt  that  she  was 
laughing  at  her  hesitation  and  choice  of  the  softer 
word.  Selma  said: 

"Yes — he  was  a  Jew.    Both  were  Jews." 

"Both?"  inquired  Jane,  puzzled. 

"Marx  and  Jesus,"  explained  Selma. 

Jane  was  startled.    "So  He  was  a  Jew — wasn't  He?" 

"And  they  were  both  labor  leaders — labor  agitators. 
The  first  one  proclaimed  the  brotherhood  of  man.  But 
he  regarded  this  world  as  hopeless  and  called  on  the 
weary  and  heavy  laden  masses  to  look  to  the  next  world 
for  the  righting  of  their  wrongs.  Then — eighteen  cen 
turies  after — came  that  second  Jew" — Selma  looked 
passionate,  reverent  admiration  at  the  powerful,  bearded 
face,  so  masterful,  yet  so  kind — "and  he  said :  'No ! 
not  in  the  hereafter,  but  in  the  here.  Here  and  now, 
my  brothers.  Let  us  make  this  world  a  heaven.  Let 
us  redeem  ourselves  and  destroy  the  devil  of  ignorance 
who  is  holding  us  in  this  hell.'  It  was  three  hundred 
years  before  that  first  Jew  began  to  triumph.  It  won't 
be  so  long  before  there  are  monuments  to  Marx  in 
clean  and  beautiful  and  free  cities  all  over  the  earth." 

Jane  listened  intensely.  There  was  admiring  envy 
in  her  eyes  as  she  cried:  "How  splendid! — to  believe 
in  something — and  work  for  it  and  live  for  it — as 
you  do !" 


THE    CONFLICT 


Selma  laughed,  with  a  charming  little  gesture  of  the 
shoulders  and  the  hands  that  reminded  Jane  of  her 
foreign  parentage.  "Nothing  else  seems  worth  while," 
said  she.  "Nothing  else  is  worth  while.  There  are 
only  two  entirely  great  careers — to  be  a  teacher  of  the 
right  kind  and  work  to  ease  men's  minds — as  those 
four  did — or  to  be  a  doctor  of  the  right  kind  and 
work  to  make  mankind  healthy.  All  the  suffering,  all 
the  crime,  all  the  wickedness,  comes  from  ignorance 
or  bad  health — or  both.  Usually  it's  simply  bad 
health." 

Jane  felt  as  if  she  were  devoured  of  thirst  and 
drinking  at  a  fresh,  sparkling  spring.  "I  never  thought 
of  that  before,"  said  she. 

"If  you  find  out  all  about  any  criminal,  big  or 
little,  you'll  discover  that  he  had  bad  health — -poisons 
in  his  blood  that  goaded  him  on." 

Jane  nodded.  "Whenever  I'm  difficult  to  get  on 
with,  I'm  always-  not  quite  well." 

"I  can  see  that  your  disposition  is  perfect,  when  you 
are  well,"  said  Selma. 

"And  yours,"  said  Jane. 

"Oh,  I'm  never  out  of  humor,"  said  Selma.  "You 
see,  I'm  never  sick — not  the  least  bit." 

"You  are  Miss  Gordon,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes— I'm  Selma  Gordon." 

"My  name  is  Jane  Hastings."  Then  as  this  seemed 
to  convey  nothing  to  Selma,  Jane  added:  "I'm  not 
like  you.  I  haven't  an  individuality  of  my  own — that 

63 


THE   CONFLICT 


anybody  knows  about.  So,  I'll  have  to  identify  myself 
by  saying  that  I'm  Martin  Hastings'  daughter." 

Jane  confidently  expected  that  this  announcement 
would  cause  some  sort  of  emotion — perhaps  of  awe, 
perhaps  of  horror,  certainly  of  interest.  She  was  dis 
appointed.  If  Selma  felt  anything  she  did  not  show 
it — and  Jane  was  of  the  opinion  that  it  would  be 
well  nigh  impossible  for  so  direct  and  natural  a  person 
to  conceal.  Jane  went  on: 

"I  read  in  your  paper  about  your  fund  for  sick 
children.  I  was  riding  past  your  office — saw  the  sign 
— and  I've  come  in  to  give  what  I  happen  to  have 
about  me."  She  drew  out  the  small  roll  of  bills  and 
handed  it  to  Selma. 

The  Russian  girl — if  it  is  fair  thus  to  characterize 
one  so  intensely  American  in  manner,  in  accent  and  in 
speech — took  the  money  and  said: 

"We'll  acknowledge  it  in  the  paper  next  week." 

Jane  flushed  and  a  thrill  of  alarm  ran  through  her. 
"Oh — please — no,"  she  urged.  "I'd  not  like  to  have 
my  name  mentioned.  That  would  look  as  if  I  had 
done  it  to  seem  charitable.  Besides,  it's  such  a 
trifle." 

Selma  was  calm  and  apparently  unsuspicious.  "Very 
well,"  said  she.  "We'll  write,  telling  what  we  did  with 
the  money,  so  that  you  can  investigate." 

"But  I  trust  you  entirely,"  cried  Jane. 

Selma  shook  her  head.  "But  we  don't  wish  to  be 
trusted,"  said  she.  "Only  dishonest  people  wish  to  be 

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trusted  when  it's  possible  to  avoid  trusting.  And  we 
all  need  watching.  It  helps  us  to  keep  straight." 

"Oh,  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  protested  Miss  Hast 
ings.  "Lots  of  the  time  I'd  hate  to  be  watched.  I 
don't  want  everybody  to  know  all  I  do." 

Selma's  eyes  opened.     "Why  not?"  she  said. 

Jane  cast  about  for  a  way  to  explain  what  seemed 
to  her  a  self-evident  truth.  "I  mean — privacy,"  she 
said.  "For  instance,  if  you  were  in  love,  you'd  not 
want  everybody  to  know  about  it?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  declared  Selma.  "I'd  be  tremendously 
proud  of  it.  It  must  be  wonderful  to  be  in  love." 

In  one  of  those  curious  twists  of  feminine  nature, 
Miss  Hastings  suddenly  felt  the  glow  of  a  strong,  unre 
served  liking  for  this  strange,  candid  girl. 

Selma  went  on:  "But  I'm  afraid  I  never  shall  be. 
I  get  no  time  to  think  about  myself.  From  rising  till 
bed  time  my  work  pushes  at  me."  She  glanced  un 
easily  at  her  desk,  apologetically  at  Miss  Hastings. 
"I  ought  to  be  writing  this  minute.  The  strike  is 
occupying  Victor,  and  I'm  helping  out  with  his 
work." 

"I'm  interrupting,"  said  Jane.  "I'll  go."  She  put 
out  her  hand  with  her  best,  her  sweetest  smile.  "We're 
going  to  be  friends — aren't  we?" 

Selma  clasped  her  hand  heartily  and  said:  "We  are 
friends.  I  like  everybody.  There's  always  something 
to  like  in  everyone — and  the  bad  part  isn't  their  fault. 
But  it  isn't  often  that  I  like  anyone  so  much  as  I  do 

65 


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you.  You  are  so  direct  and  honest — quite  different 
from  the  other  women  of  your  class  that  I've  met." 

Jane  felt  unaccountably  grateful  and  humble.  "I'm 
afraid  you're  too  generous.  I  guess  you're  not  a  very 
good  judge  of  people,"  she  said. 

"So  Victor — Victor  Dorn — says,"  laughed  Selma. 
"He  says  I'm  too  confiding.  Well — why  not?  And 
really,  he  trusts  everybody,  too — except  with  the  cause. 
Then  he's — he's" — she  glanced  from  face  to  face  of  the 
four  pictures — "he's  like  those  men." 

Jane's  glance  followed  Selma's.  She  said:  "Yes — I 
should  imagine  so — from  what  I've  heard."  She 
startled,  flushed,  hid  behind  a  somewhat  constrained 
manner.  "Will  you  come  up  to  my  house  to  lunch?" 

"If  I  can  find  time,"  said  Selma.  "But  I'd  rather 
come  and  take  you  for  a  walk.  I  have  to  walk  two 
hours  every  day.  It's  the  only  thing  that'll  keep  my 
head  clear." 

"When  will  you  come? — to-morrow?" 

"Is  nine  o'clock  too  early?" 

Jane  reflected  that  her  father  left  for  business  at 
half-past  eight.  "Nine  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "Good- 
by  again." 

As  she  was  mounting  her  horse,  she  saw  "the  Cossack 
girl,"  as  she  was  calling  her,  writing  away  at  the  window 
hardly  three  feet  above  the  level  of  Jane's  head  when 
she  was  mounted,  so  low  was  the  first  story  of  the  bat 
tered  old  frame  house.  But  Selma  did  not  see  her;  she 
was  all  intent  upon  the  writing.  "She's  forgotten  me 

66 


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already,"  thought  Jane  with  a  pang  of  jealous  vanity. 
She  added:  "But  she  has  something  to  think  about — 
she  and  Victor  Dorn." 

She  was  so  preoccupied  that  she  rode  away  with 
only  an  absent  thank  you  for  the  small  boy,  in  an 
older  and  much  larger  and  wider  brother's  cast-off 
shirt,  suspenders  and  trousers.  At  the  corner  of  the 
avenue  she  remembered  and  turned  her  horse.  There 
stood  the  boy  gazing  after  her  with  a  hypnotic  intensity 
that  made  her  smile.  She  rode  back  fumbling  in  her 
pockets.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  she  to  the  boy. 
Then  she  called  up  to  Selina  Gordon: 

"Miss  Gordon — please — will  you  lend  me  a  quarter 
until  to-morrow?" 

Selma  looked  up,  stared  dazedly  at  her,  smiled  ab 
sently  at  Miss  Hastings — and  Miss  Hastings  had  the 
strongest  confirmation  of  her  suspicion  that  Selma  had 
forgotten  her  and  her  visit  the  instant  she  vanished 
from  the  threshold  of  the  office.  Said  Selma:  "A 
quarter? — oh,  yes — certainly."  She  seemed  to  be 
searching  a  drawer  or  a  purse  out  of  sight.  "I 
haven't  anything  but  a  five  dollar  bill.  I'm  so  sorry" 
— this  in  an  absent  manner,  with  most  of  her  thoughts 
evidently  still  upon  her  work.  She  rose,  leaned  from 
the  window,  glanced  up  the  street,  then  down.  She 
went  on: 

"There  comes  Victor  Dorn.     He'll  lend  it  to  you." 

Along  the  ragged  brick  walk  at  a  quick  pace  the 
man  who  had  in  such  abrupt  fashion  stormed  Jane 

67 


THE    CONFLICT 


Hasting's  fancy  and  taken  possession  of  her  curiosity 
was  advancing  with  a  basket  on  his  arm.  He  was 
indeed  a  man  of  small  stature — about  the  medium 
height  for  a  woman — about  the  height  of  Jane  Hast 
ings.  But  his  figure  was  so  well  put  together  and  his 
walk  so  easy  and  free  from  self-consciousness  that  the 
question  of  stature  no  sooner  arose  than  it  was  dis 
missed.  His  head  commanded  all  the  attention — its 
poise  and  the  remarkable  face  that  fronted  it.  The 
features  were  bold,  the  skin  was  clear  and  healthy  and 
rather  fair.  His  eyes — gray  or  green  blue  and  set 
neither  prominently  nor  retreatedly — seemed  to  be 
seeing  and  understanding  all  that  was  going  on  about 
him.  He  had  a  strong,  rather  relentless  mouth — 
the  mouth  of  men  who  make  and  compel  sacrifices  for 
their  ambitions. 

"Victor,"  cried  Selma  as  soon  as  he  was  within  easy 
range  of  her  voice,  "please  lend  Miss  Hastings  a  quar 
ter."  And  she  immediately  sat  down  and  went  to  work 
again,  with  the  incident  dismissed  from  mind. 

The  young  man — for  he  was  plainly  not  far  beyond 
thirty — halted  and  regarded  the  young  woman  on  the 
horse. 

"I  wish  to  give  this  young  gentleman  here  a  quarter," 
said  Jane.  "He  was  very  good  about  holding  my 
horse." 

The  words  were  not  spoken  before  the  young  gentle 
man  darted  across  the  narrow  street  and  into  a  yard 
hidden  by  masses  of  clematis,  morning  glory  and  sweet 

68 


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peas.  And  Jane  realized  that  she  had  wholly  mistaken 
the  meaning  of  that  hypnotic  stare. 

Victor  laughed — the  small  figure,  the  vast  clothes, 
the  bare  feet  with  voluminous  trousers  about  them  made 
a  ludicrous  sight.  "He  doesn't  want  it,"  said  Victor. 
"Thank  you  just  the  same." 

"But  I  want  him  to  have  it,"  said  Jane. 

With  a  significant  unconscious  glance  at  her  cos 
tume  Dorn  said:  "Those  costumes  haven't  reached  our 
town  yet." 

"He  did  some  work  for  me.     I  owe  it  to  him." 

"He's  my  sister's  little  boy,"  said  Dorn,  with  his 
amiable,  friendly  smile.  "We  mustn't  start  him  in  the 
bad  way  of  expecting  pay  for  politeness." 

Jane  colored  as  if  she  had  been  rebuked,  when  in 
fact  his  tone  forbade  the  suggestion  of  rebuke.  There 
was  an  unpleasant  sparkle  in  her  eyes  as  she  regarded 
the  young  man  in  the  baggy  suit,  with  the  basket  on 
his  arm.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  she  coldly.  "I 
naturally  didn't  know  your  peculiar  point  of  view." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Dorn  carelessly.  "Thank 
you,  and  good  day."  And  with  a  polite  raising  of  the 
hat  and  a  manner  of  good  humored  friendliness  that 
showed  how  utterly  unconscious  he  was  of  her  being 
offended  at  him,  he  hastened  across  the  street  and  went 
in  at  the  gate  where  the  boy  had  vanished.  And  Jane 
had  the  sense  that  he  had  forgotten  her.  She  glanced 
nervously  up  at  the  window  to  see  whether  Selma  Gor 
don  was  witnessing  her  humiliation — for  so  she  regarded 

69 


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it.  But  Selma  was  evidently  lost  in  a  world  of  her 
own.  "She  doesn't  love  him,"  Jane  decided.  "For, 
even  though  she  is  a  strange  kind  of  person,  she's  a 
woman — and  if  she  had  loved  him  she  couldn't  have 
helped  watching  while  he  talked  with  another  woman — 
especially  with  one  of  my  appearance  and  class." 

Jane  rode  slowly  away.  At  the  corner — it  was  a 
long  block — she  glanced  toward  the  scene  she  had  just 
quitted.  Involuntarily  she  drew  rein.  Victor  and  the 
boy  had  come  out  into  the  street  and  were  playing 
catches.  The  game  did  not  last  long.  Dorn  let  the 
boy  corner  him  and  seize  him,  then  gave  him  a  great 
toss  into  the  air,  catching  him  as  he  came  down  and 
giving  him  a  hug  and  a  kiss.  The  boy  ran  shouting 
merrily  into  the  yard;  Victor  disappeared  in  the  en 
trance  to  the  offices  of  the  New  Day. 

That  evening,  as  she  pretended  to  listen  to  Hull  on 
national  politics,  and  while  dressing  the  following  morn 
ing  Jane  reflected  upon  her  adventure.  She  decided 
that  Dorn  and  the  "wild  girl"  were  a  low,  ill-mannered 
pair  with  whom  she  had  nothing  in  common,  that  her 
fantastic,  impulsive  interest  in  them  had  been  killed, 
that  for  the  future  she  would  avoid  "all  that  sort  of 
cattle."  She  would  receive  Selma  Gordon  politely,  of 
course — would  plead  headache  as  an  excuse  for  not 
walking,  would  get  rid  of  her  as  soon  as  possible. 
"No  doubt,"  thought  Jane,  with  the  familiar,  though 
indignantly  denied,  complacence  of  her  class,  "as  soon 
as  she  gets  in  here  she'll  want  to  hang  on.  She  played 

70 


THE   CONFLICT 


it  very  well,  but  she  must  have  been  crazy  with  delight 
at  my  noticing  her  and  offering  to  take  her  up." 

The  postman  came  as  Jane  was  finishing  breakfast. 
He  brought  a  note  from  Selma — a  hasty  pencil  scrawl 
on  a  sheet  of  printer's  copy  paper : 

"Dear  Miss  Hastings :  For  the  present  I'm  too  busy  to 
take  my  walks.  So,  I'll  not  be  there  to-morrow.  With  best 
regards,  S.  G.' 

Such  a  fury  rose  up  in  Jane  that  the  undigested 
breakfast  went  wrong  and  put  her  in  condition  to  give 
such  exhibition  as  chance  might  tempt  of  that  ugliness 
of  disposition  which  appears  from  time  to  time  in  all 
of  us  not  of  the  meek  and  worm-like  class,  and  which 
we  usually  attribute  to  any  cause  under  the  sun  but 
the  vulgar  right  one.  "The  impertinence!"  muttered 
Jane,  with  a  second  glance  at  the  note  which  conveyed; 
among  other  humiliating  things,  an  impression  of  her 
own  absolute  lack  of  importance  to  Selma  Gordon. 
"Serves  me  right  for  lowering  myself  to  such  people. 
If  I  wanted  to  try  to  do  anything  for  the  working 
class  I'd  have  to  keep  away  from  them.  They're  so 
unattractive  to  look  at  and  to  associate  with — not  like 
those  shrewd,  respectful,  interesting  peasants  one  finds 
on  the  other  side.  They're  better  in  the  East.  They 
know  their  place  in  a  way.  But  out  here  they're  insuf 
ferable." 

And  she  spent  the  morning  quarrelling  with  her  maid 
and  the  other  servants,  issuing  orders  right  and  left, 
working  herself  into  a  horrible  mood  dominated  by  a 

71 


THE   CONFLICT 


headache  that  was  anything  but  a  pretense.  As  she 
wandered  about  the  house  and  gardens,  she  trailed  a 
beautiful  negligee  with  that  carelessness  which  in  a 
woman  of  clean  and  orderly  habits  invariably  indicates 
the  possession  of  many  clothes  and  of  a  maid  who  can 
be  counted  on  to  freshen  things  up  before  they  shall 
be  used  again.  Her  father  came  home  to  lunch  in  high 
good  humor. 

"I'll  not  go  down  town  again  for  a  few  days,"  said 
he.  "I  reckon  I'd  best  keep  out  of  the  way.  That 
scoundrelly  Victor  Dorn  has  done  so  much  lying  and 
inciting  these  last  four  or  five  years  that  it  ain't  safe 
for  a  man  like  me  to  go  about  when  there's  trouble 
with  the  hands." 

"Isn't  it  outrageous !"  exclaimed  Jane.  "He  ought 
to  be  stopped." 

Hastings  chuckled  and  nodded.  "And  he  will  be," 
said  he.  "Wait  till  this  strike's  over." 

"When  will  that  be?"  asked  Jane. 

"Mighty  soon,"  replied  her  father.  "I  was  ready 
for  'em  this  time — good  and  ready.  I've  sent  word  to 
the  governor  that  I  want  the  militia  down  here  to 
morrow " 

"Has  there  been  a  riot?"  cried  Jane  anxiously. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Hastings.  He  was  laughing  to  him 
self.  "But  there  will  be  to-night.  Then  the  governor'll 
send  the  troops  in  to-morrow  afternoon." 

"But  maybe  the  men'll  be  quiet,  and  then "  began 

Jane,  sick  inside  and  trembling. 

72 


THE   CONFLICT 


"When  I  say  a  thing'll  happen,  it'll  happen,"  inter 
rupted  her  father.  "We've  made  up  our  minds  it's 
time  to  give  these  fellows  a  lesson.  It's  got  to  be  done. 
A  milder  lesson'll  serve  now,  where  later  on  it'd  have 
to  be  hard.  I  tell  you  these  things  because  I  want  you 
to  remember  'em.  They'll  come  in  handy — when  you'll 
have  to  look  after  your  own  property." 

She  knew  how  her  father  hated  the  thought  of  his 
own  death ;  this  was  the  nearest  he  had  ever  come  to 
speaking  of  it.  "Of  course,  there's  your  brother 
William,"  he  went  on.  "William's  a  good  boy — and  a 
mighty  good  business  man — though  he  does  take  risks 
I'd  never  'a  took — not  even  when  I  was  young  and  had 
nothing  to  lose.  Yes — and  Billy's  honest.  But" — the 
big  head  shook  impressively — "William's  human,  Jenny 
— don't  ever  forget  that.  The  love  of  money's  an  awful 
thing."  A  lustful  glitter  like  the  shine  of  an  inex 
tinguishable  fire  made  his  eyes  fascinating  and  terrible. 
"It  takes  hold  of  a  man  and  never  lets  go.  To  see  the 
money  pile  up — and  up — and  up." 

The  girl  turned  away  her  gaze.  She  did  not  wish 
to  see  so  farHnto  her  father's  soul.  It  seemed  a  hideous 
indecency. 

"So,  Jenny — don't  trust  William,  but  look  after  your 
own  property." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  anything  about  it,  popsy,"  she 
cried,  fighting  to  think  of  him  and  to  speak  to  him  as 
simply  the  living  father  she  had  always  insisted  on 
seeing. 

73 


THE   CONFLICT 


"Yes — you  do  care,"  said  Hastings  sharply.  "You've 
got  to  have  your  money,  because  that's  your  founda 
tion — what  you're  built  on.  And  I'm  going  to  train 
you.  This  here  strike's  a  good  time  to  begin." 

After  a  long  silence  she  said:  "Yes,  money's  what 
I'm  built  on.  I  might  as  well  recognize  the  truth  and 
act  accordingly.  I  want  you  to  teach  me,  father." 

"I've  got  to  educate  you  so  as,  when  you  get  con 
trol,  you  won't  go  and  do  fool  sentimental  things  like 
some  women — and  some  men  that  warn't  trained  prac 
tically — men  like  that  Davy  Hull  you  think  so  well 
of.  Things  that'd  do  no  good  and  'd  make  you 
smaller  and  weaker." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  girl.  "About  this  strike — 
why  won't  you  give  the  men  shorter  hours  and 
better  pay?" 

"Because  the  company  can't  afford  it.  As  things 
are  now,  there's  only  enough  left  for  a  three  per  cent 
dividend  after  the  interest  on  the  bonds  is  paid." 

She  had  read  in  the  New  Day  that  by  a  series  of 
tricks  the  "traction  ring"  had  quadrupled  the  bonded 
indebtedness  of  the  roads  and  multiplied  the  stock  by 
six,  and  had  pocketed  the  proceeds  of  the  steal;  that 
three  per  cent  on  the  enormously  inflated  capital  was 
in  fact  eighteen  per  cent  on  the  actual  stock  value; 
that  seven  per  cent  on  the  bonds  was  in  fact  twenty- 
eight  per  cent  on  the  actual  bonded  indebtedness ;  that 
this  traction  steal  was  a  fair  illustration  of  how  in  a 
score  of  ways  in  Remsen  City,  in  a  thousand  and  one 

74 


THE   CONFLICT 


ways  in  all  parts  of  the  country,  the  upper  class  was 
draining  away  the  substance  of  the  masses,  was  swin 
dling  them  out  of  their  just  wages,  was  forcing  them 
to  pay  many  times  the  just  prices  for  every  article  of 
civilized  use.  She  had  read  these  things — she  had 
thought  about  them — she  had  realized  that  they  were 
true. 

She  did  not  put  to  her  father  the  question  that  was 
on  her  lips — the  next  logical  question  after  his  answer 
that  the  company  could  not  afford  to  cut  the  hours 
lower  than  fourteen  or  to  raise  wages  to  what  was 
necessary  for  a  man  to  have  if  he  and  his  family  were 
to  live,  not  in  decency  and  comfort,  but  in  something 
less  than  squalor.  She  did  not  put  the  question  because 
she  wished  to  spare  her  father — to  spare  herself  the 
shame  of  hearing  his  tricky  answer — to  spare  herself 
the  discomfort  of  squarely  facing  a  nasty  truth. 

Instead  she  saicl:  "I  understand.  And  you  have 
got  to  look  out  for  the  rights  of  the  people  who  have 
invested  their  money." 

"If  I  didn't  I'd  be  cheating  them,"  said  Hastings. 
"And  if  the  men  don't  like  their  jobs,  why,  they  can 
quit  and  get  jobs  they  do  like."  He  added,  in  abso 
lute  unconsciousness  of  his  inconsistency,  in  absolute 
belief  in  his  own  honesty  and  goodness,  "The  truth  is 
our  company  pays  as  high  wages  as  can  be  got  any 
where.  As  for  them  hours — when  /  was  working  my 
way  up,  /  used  to  put  in  sixteen  and  eighteen  hours  a 
day,  and  was  mighty  glad  to  do  it.  This  lazy  talk  of 

75 


THE   CONFLICT 


cutting  down  hours  makes  me  sick.  And  these  fellows 
that're  always  kicking  on  their  jobs,  I'd  like  to  know 
what'd  become  of  them  and  their  families  if  I  and  men 
like  me  didn't  provide  work  for  'em." 

"Yes,  indeed !"  cried  Jane,  eagerly  seizing  upon  this 
attractive  view  of  the  situation — and  resolutely  accept 
ing  it  without  question. 

In  came  one  of  the  maids,  saying:  "There's  a  man 
wants  to  see  you,  Mr.  Hastings." 

"What's  his  name?  What  does  he  want?"  inquired 
Hastings,  while  Jane  made  a  mental  note  that  she 
must  try  to  inject  at  least  a  little  order  and  form  into 
the  manners  of  announcing  visitors. 

"He  didn't  give  a  name.  He  just  said,  'Tell  the  old 
man  I  want  to  see  him.'  I  ain't  sure,  but  I  think  it's 
Dick  Kelly." 

As  Lizzie  was  an  ardent  Democrat,  she  spoke  the 
name  contemptuously — for  Dick  Kelly  was  the  Repub 
lican  boss.  If  it  had  been  House,  the  Democratic  boss 
and  Kelly's  secret  dependent  and  henchman,  she  would 
have  said  "Mr.  Joseph  House"  in  a  tone  of  deep 
respect. 

"Kelly,"  said  Hastings.  "Must  be  something  im 
portant  or  he'd  'a  telephoned  or  asked  me  to  see  him 
at  my  office  or  at  the  Lincoln  Club.  He  never  came 
out  here  before.  Bring  him  in,  Lizzie." 

A  moment  and  there  appeared  in  the  doorway  a  man 
of  perhaps  forty  years  who  looked  like  a  prosperous 
contractor  who  had  risen  from  the  ranks.  His  figure 

76 


THE   CONFLICT 


was  notable  for  its  solidity  and  for  the  power  of  the 
shoulders;  but  already  there  were  indications  that  the 
solidity,  come  of  hard  manual  labor  in  early  life,  was 
soon  to  soften  into  J:at  under  the  melting  influence  of 
prosperity  and  the  dissipation  it  put  within  too  easy 
reach.  The  striking  features  of  his  face  were  a  pair 
of  keen,  hard,  greenish  eyes  and  a  jaw  that  protruded 
uglily — the  jaw  of  aggressiveness,  not  the  too  promi 
nent  jaw  of  weakness.  At  sight  of  Jane  he  halted 
awkwardly. 

"How're  you,  Mr.  Hastings?"  said  he. 

"Hello,  Dick,"  said  the  old  man.  "This  is  my 
daughter  Jane." 

Jane  smiled  a  pleasant  recognition  of  the  introduc 
tion.  Kelly  said  stiffly,  "How're  you,  ma'am?" 

"Want  to  see  me  alone,  I  suppose?"  Hastings  went 
on.  "You  go  out  on  the  porch,  Jenny." 

As  soon  as  Jane  disappeared  Kelly's  stiffness  and 
clumsiness  vanished.  To  head  off  Hastings'  coming 
offer  of  a  cigar,  he  drew  one  from  his  pocket  and 
lighted  it.  "There's  hell  to  pay,  Mr.  Hastings,"  he 
began,  seating  himself  near  the  old  man,  tilting  back 
in  his  chair  and  crossing  his  legs. 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  can  take  care  of  it,"  said  Hast 
ings  calmly. 

"Oh,  yes,  we  kin  take  care  of  it,  all  right.  Only, 
I  don't  want  to  do  nothing  without  consulting 
you." 

In  these  two  statements  Mr.  Kelly  summed  up  the 
6  77 


THE   CONFLICT 


whole   of  politics  in   Remsen   City,  in   any  city   any 
where,  in  the  country  at  large. 

Kelly  had  started  life  as  a  blacksmith.  But  he  soon 
tired  of  the  dullness  and  toil  and  started  forth  to  find 
some  path  up  to  where  men  live  by  making  others 
work  for  them  instead  of  plodding  along  at  the  hand-to- 
mouth  existence  that  is  the  lot  of  those  who  live  by  their 
own  labors  alone.  He  was  a  safe  blower  for  a  while,  but 
wisely  soon  abandoned  that  fascinating  but  precarious 
and  unremunerative  career.  From  card  sharp  follow 
ing  the  circus  and  sheet-writer  to  a  bookmaker  he 
graduated  into  bartender,  into  proprietor  of  a  dog 
gery.  As  every  saloon  is  a  political  club,  every  saloon 
keeper  is  of  necessity  a  politician.  Kelly's  woodbox 
^happened  to  be  a  convenient  place  for  directing  the 
floaters  and  the  repeaters.  Kelly's  political  importance 
grew  apace.  His  respectability  grew  more  slowly.  But 
it  had  grown  and  was  growing. 

If  you  had  asked  Lizzie,  the  maid,  why  she  was  a 
Democrat,  she  would  have  given  no  such  foolish  reason 
;as  the  average  man  gives.  She  would  not  have  twad 
dled  about  principles — when  everyone  with  eyeteeth  cut 
ought  to  know  that  principles  have  departed  from 
politics,  now  that  both  parties  have  been  harmonized 
and  organized  into  agencies  of  the  plutocracy.  She 
would  not  have  said  she  was  a  Democrat  because  her 
father  was,  or  because  all  her  friends  and  associates 
were.  She  would  have  replied — in  pleasantly  Ameri 
canized  Irish: 

78 


THE   CONFLICT 


"I'm  a  Democrat  because  when  my  father  got  too 
old  to  work,  Mr.  House,  the  Democrat  leader,  gave 
him  a  job  on  the  elevator  at  the  Court  House — though 
that  dirty  thief  and  scoundrel,  Kelly,  the  Republican 
boss,  owned  all  the  judges  and  county  officers.  And 
when  my  brother  lost  his  place  as  porter  because  he 
took  a  drink  too  many,  Mr.  House  gave  him  a  card 
to  the  foreman  of  the  gas  company,  and  he  went  to 
work  at  eight  a  week  and  is  there  yet." 

Mr.  Kelly  and  Mr.  House  belong  to  a  maligned  and 
much  misunderstood  class.  Whenever  you  find  any 
where  in  nature  an  activity  of  any  kind,  however  pes 
tiferous  its  activity  may  seem  to  you — or  however  good 
— you  may  be  sure  that  if  you  look  deep  enough  you 
will  find  that  that  activity  has  a  use,  arises  from  a 
need.  The  "robber  trusts"  and  the  political  bosses 
are  interesting  examples  of  this  basic  truth.  They 
have  arisen  because  science,  revolutionizing  human  so 
ciety,  has  compelled  it  to  organize.  The  organization 
is  crude  and  clumsy  and  stupid,  as  yet,  because  men 
are  ignorant,  are  experimenting,  are  working  in  the 
dark.  So,  the  organizing  forces  are  necessarily  crude 
and  clumsy  and  stupid. 

Mr.  Hastings  was — all  unconsciously — organizingk 
society  industrially.  Mr.  Kelly — equally  unconscious, 
of  the  true  nature  of  his  activities — was  or 
ganizing  society  politically.  And  as  industry  and 
politics  are — and  ever  have  been — at  bottom  two 
names  for  identically  the  same  thing,  Mr.  Hastings 

79 


THE   CONFLICT 


and   Mr.    Kelly   were    bound   sooner    or    later    to    get 
together. 

Remsen  City  was  organized  like  every  other  large 
or  largish  community.  There  were  two  clubs — the 
Lincoln  and  the  Jefferson — which  well  enough  repre 
sented  the  "respectable  elements" — that  is,  those  citi 
zens  who  were  of  the  upper  class.  There  were  two 
other  clubs — the  Blaine  and  the  Tilden — which  were 
similarly  representative  of  the  "rank  and  file"  and, 
rather,  of  the  petty  officers  who  managed  the  rank  and 
file  and  voted  it  and  told  it  what  to  think  and  what 
not  to  think,  in  exchange  taking  care  of  the  needy 
sick,  of  the  aged,  of  those  out  of  work  and  so  on. 
Martin  Hastings — the  leading  Republican  citizen  of 
Remsen  City,  though  for  obvious  reasons  his  political 
activities  were  wholly  secret  and  stealthy — was  the 
leading  spirit  in  the  Lincoln  Club.  Jared  Olds — 
Remsen  City's  richest  and  most  influential  Democrat, 
the  head  of  the  gas  company  and  the  water  company- 
was  foremost  in  the  Jefferson  Club.  At  the  Lincoln 
and  the  Jefferson  you  rarely  saw  any  but  "gentlemen" 
— men  of  established  position  and  fortune,  deacons  and 
vestrymen,  judges,  corporation  lawyers  and  the  like. 
The  Blaine  and  the  Tilden  housed  a  livelier  and  a  far 
less  select  class — the  "boys" — the  active  politicians, 
the  big  saloon  keepers,  the  criminal  lawyers,  the  gam 
blers,  the  chaps  who  knew  how  to  round  up  floaters 
and  to  handle  gangs  of  repeaters,  the  active  young 
sports  working  for  political  position,  by  pitching  and 

80 


THE   CONFLICT 


carrying  for  the  political  leaders,  by  doing  their  er 
rands  of  charity  or  crookedness  or  what  not.  Joe 
House  was  the  "big  shout"  at  the  Tilden;  Dick 
Kelly  could  be  found  every  evening  on  the  third 
— or  "wine,"  or  plotting — floor  of  the  Blaine — 
found  holding  court.  And  very  respectful  indeed  were 
even  the  most  eminent  of  Lincoln,  or  Jefferson,  re 
spectabilities  who  sought  him  out  there  to  ask  favors 
of  him. 

The  bosses  tend  more  and  more  to  become  mere 
flunkeys  of  the  plutocrats.  Kelly  belonged  to  the  old 
school  of  boss,  dating  from  the  days  when  social  organ 
ization  was  in  the  early  stages,  when  the  political  organ 
izer  was  feared  and  even  served  by  the  industrial  organ 
izer,  the  embryo  plutocrats.  He  realized  how  necessary 
he  was  to  his  plutocratic  master,  and  he  made  that 
master  treat  him  almost  as  an  equal.  He  was  exacting 
ever  larger  pay  for  taking  care  of  the  voters  and 
keeping  them  fooled;  he  was  getting  rich,  and  had  as 
yet  vague  aspirations  to  respectability  and  fashion.  He 
had  stopped  drinking,  had  "cut  out  the  women,"  had 
made  a  Beginning  toward  a  less  inelegant  way  of  speak 
ing  the  language.  His  view  of  life  was  what  is  called 
cynical.  That  is,  he  regarded  himself  as  morally  the 
equal  of  the  respectable  rulers  of  society — or  of  the 
preachers  who  attended  to  the  religious  part  of  the 
grand  industry  of  "keeping  the  cow  quiet  while  it 
was  being  milked." 

But  Mr.  Kelly  was  explaining  to  Martin  Hastings 

81 


THE   CONFLICT 


what  he  meant  when  he  said  that  there  was  "hell 
to  pay": 

"That  infernal  little  cuss,  Victor  Dorn,"  said  he 
"made  a  speech  in  the  Court  House  Square  to-day.  Of 
course,  none  of  the  decent  papers — and  they're  all 
decent  except  his'n — will  publish  any  of  it.  Still,  there 
was  about  a  thousand  people  there  before  he  got 
through — and  the  thing'll  spread." 

"Speech?— what  about?"  said  Hastings.  "He's  al 
ways  shooting  off  his  mouth.  He'd  better  stop  talking 
and  go  to  work  at  some  honest  business." 

"He's  got  on  to  the  fact  that  this  strike  is  a  put-up 
job — that  the  company  hired  labor  detectives  in  Chi 
cago  last  winter  to  come  down  here  and  get  hold  of 
the  union.  He  gave  names — amounts  paid — the  whole 
damn  thing." 

"Um,"  said  Hastings,  rubbing  his  skinny  hands  along 
the  shiny  pantaloons  over  his  meagre  legs.  "Um." 

"But  that  ain't  all,"  pursued  Kelly.  "He  read  out 
&  list  of  the  men  told  off  to  pretend  to  set  fire  to  the 
<;ar  barns  and  start  the  riot — those  Chicago  chaps,  you 
know." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  said  Hastings 
sharply. 

Kelly  smiled  slightly — amused  scorn.  It  seemed 
absurd  to  him  for  the  old  man  to  keep  up  the  pretense 
of  ignorance.  In  fact,  Hastings  was  ignorant — of  the 
details.  He  was  not  quite  the  aloof  plutocrat  of  the 
modern  school,  who  permits  himself  to  know  nothing 

82 


THE   CONFLICT 


of  details  beyond  the  dividend  rate  and  similar  innocent 
looking  results  of  causes  at  which  sometimes  hell  itself* 
would  shudder.  But,  while  he  was  more  active  than 
the  conscience-easing  devices  now  working  smoothly 
made  necessary,  he  never  permitted  himself  to  know  any 
unnecessary  criminal  or  wicked  fact  about  his  enter 
prises. 

'*!  don't  know,"  he  repeated.  "And  I  don't  want  to 
know." 

"  Any  how,  Dorn  gave  away  the  whole  thing.  He 
even  read  a  copy  of  your  letter  of  introduction  to  the 
governor — the  one  you — according  to  Dorn — gave  Fill- 
more  when  you  sent  him  up  to  the  Capitol  to  arrange 
for  the  invitation  to  come  after  the  riot." 

Hastings  knew  that  the  boss  was  deliberately  "rub 
bing  it  in"  because  Hastings — that  is,  Hastings'  agents 
had  not  invited  Kelly  to  assist  in  the  project  for  "teach 
ing  the  labor  element  a  much  needed  lesson."  But 
knowledge  of  Kelly's  motive  did  not  make  the  truth  he 
was  telling  any  less  true — the  absurd  mismanagement 
of  the  whole  affair,  with  the  result  that  Dorn  seemed 
in  the  way  to  change  it  from  a  lesson  to  labor  on  the 
folly  of  revolt  against  their  kind  and  generous  but  firm 
employers  into  a  provoker  of  fresh  and  fiercer  revolt 
— effective  revolt — political  revolt.  So,  as  Kelly 
"rubbed,"  Hastings  visibly  winced  and  writhed. 

Kelly  ended  his  recital  with:  "The  speech  created  a 
hell  of  a  sensation,  Mr.  Hastings.  That  young  chap 
can  talk." 

83 


THE   CONFLICT 


"Yes,"  snapped  Hastings.  "But  he  can't  do  any 
thing  else." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  replied  Kelly,  who  was 
wise  enough  to  realize  the  value  of  a  bogey  like  Dorn 
— its  usefulness  for  purposes  of  "throwing  a  scare 
into  the  silk-stocking  crowd."  "Dorn's  getting  mighty 
strong  with  the  people." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!"  retorted  Hastings.  "They'll 
listen  to  any  slick  tongued  rascal  that  roasts  those  that 
are  more  prosperous  than  they  are.  But  when  it  comes 
to  doing  anything,  they  know  better.  They  envy  and 
hate  those  that  give  them  jobs,  but  they  need  the  jobs." 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  that,  Mr.  Hastings," 
said  Kelly,  who  was  nothing  if  not  judicial.  "But 
Dorn's  mighty  plausible.  I  hear  sensible  men  saying 
there's  something  more'n  hot  air  in  his  facts  and  fig- 
gures."  Kelly  paused,  and  made  the  pause  significant. 
"About  that  last  block  of  traction  stock,  Mr.  Hastings. 
I  thought  you  were  going  to  let  me  in  on  the  ground 
floor.  But  I  ain't  heard  nothing." 

"You  are  in,"  said  Hastings,  who  knew  when  to 
yield.  "Hasn't  Barker  been  to  see  you?  I'll  attend  to 
it,  myself." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Hastings,"  said  Kelly — dry  and 
brief  as  always  when  receipting  with  a  polite  phrase  for 
pay  for  services  rendered.  "I've  been  a  good  friend 
to  your  people." 

"Yes,  you  have,  Dick,"  said  the  old  man  heartily. 
"And  I  want  you  to  jump  in  and  take  charge." 

84 


THE   CONFLICT 


Hastings  more  than  suspected  that  Kelly,  to  bring 
him  to  terms  and  to  force  him  to  employ  directly  the 
high-priced  Kelly  or  Republico-Democratic  machine  as 
well  as  the  State  Republico-Democratic  machine,  which 
was  cheaper,  had  got  together  the  inside  information 
and  had  ordered  one  of  his  henchmen  to  convey  it  to 
Dorn.  But  of  what  use  to  quarrel  with  Kelly?  Of 
course,  he  could  depose  him;  but  that  would  simply 
mean  putting  another  boss  in  his  place — perhaps  one 
more  expensive  and  less  efficient.  The  time  had  been 
when  he — and  the  plutocracy  generally — were  com 
pelled  to  come  to  the  political  bosses  almost  hat  in 
hand.  That  time  was  past,  never  to  return.  But  still 
a  competent  political  agent  was  even  harder  to  find  than 
a  competent  business  manager — and  was  far  more  nec 
essary;  for,  while  a  big  business  might  stagger  along 
under  poor  financial  or  organizing  management  within, 
it  could  not  live  at  all  without  political  favors,  immuni 
ties,  and  licenses.  A  band  of  pickpockets  might  as 
well  try  to  work  a  town  without  having  first  "squared" 
the  police.  Not  that  Mr.  Hastings  and  his  friends 
themselves  compared  themselves  to  a  band  of  pick 
pockets.  No,  indeed.  It  was  simply  legitimate  busi 
ness  to  blackjack  your  competitors,  corner  a  sup 
ply,  create  a  monopoly  and  fix  prices  and  wages 
to  suit  your  own  notions  of  what  was  your  due 
for  taking  the  "hazardous  risks  of  business  enter 
prise." 

"Leave  everything  to  me,"  said  Kelly  briskly.  "I 

85 


THE   CONFLICT 


can  put  the  thing  through.  Just  tell  your  lawyer  to 
apply  late  this  afternoon  to  Judge  Lansing  for  an 
injunction  forbidding  the  strikers  to  assemble  anywhere 
within  the  county.  We  don't  want  no  more  of  this 
speechifying.  This  is  a  peaceable  community,  and  it 
won't  stand  for  no  agitators." 

"Hadn't  the  lawyers  better  go  to  Judge  Freilig?" 
said  Hastings.  "He's  shown  himself  to  be  a  man  of 
sound  ideas." 

"No — Lansing,"  said  Kelly.  "He  don't  come  up  for 
re-election  for  five  years.  Freilig  comes  up  next  fall, 
and  we'll  have  hard  work  to  pull  him  through,  though 
House  is  going  to  put  him  on  the  ticket,  too.  Dora's 
going  to  make  a  hot  campaign — concentrate  on 
judges." 

"There's  nothing  in  that  Dorn  talk,"  said  Hastings. 
"You  can't  scare  me  again,  Dick,  as  you  did  with  that 
Populist  mare's  nest  ten  years  ago." 

That  had  been  Kelly's  first  "big  killing"  by  working 
on  the  fears  of  the  plutocracy.  Its  success  had  put 
him  in  a  position  to  buy  a  carriage  and  a  diamond 
necklace  for  Mrs.  Kelly  and  to  make  first  payments 
on  a  large  block  of  real  estate.  "It  was  no  mare's 
nest,  Mr.  Hastings,"  gravely  declared  the  boss.  "If  I 
hadn't  'a  knowed  just  how  to  use  the  money  we  col 
lected,  there'd  'a  been  a  crowd  in  office  for  four  years 
that  wouldn't  'a  been  easy  to  manage,  I  can  tell  you. 
But  they  was  nothing  to  this  here  Dorn  crowd. 

Dorn  is " 

86 


THE   CONFLICT 


"We  must  get  rid  of  him,  Dick,"  interrupted  Hast 
ings. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other — a  curious  glance 
— telegraphy.  No  method  was  suggested,  no  price  was 
offered  or  accepted.  But  in  the  circumstances  those 
matters  became  details  that  would  settle  themselves ;  the 
bargain  was  struck. 

"He  certainly  ought  to  be  stopped,"  said  Kelly  care 
lessly.  "He's  the  worst  enemy  the  labor  element  has 
had  in  my  time."  He  rose.  "Well,  Mr.  Hastings,  I 
must  be  going."  He  extended  his  heavy,  strong  hand, 
which  Hastings  rose  to  grasp.  "I'm  glad  we're  work 
ing  together  again  without  any  hitches.  You  won't 
forget  about  that  there  stock?" 

"I'll  telephone  about  it  right  away,  Dick — and  about 
Judge  Lansing.  You're  sure  Lansing's  all  right?  I 
didn't  like  those  decisions  of  his  last  year — the  railway 
cases,  I  mean." 

"That  was  all  right,  Mr.  Hastings,"  said  Kelly  with 
a  wave  of  the  hand.  "I  had  to  have  'em  in  the  interests 
of  the  party.  I  knowed  the  upper  court'd  reverse.  No, 
Lansing's  a  good  party  man — a  good,  sound  man  in 
every  way." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Hastings. 

Before  going  into  his  private  room  to  think  and  plan 
and  telephone,  he  looked  out  on  the  west  veranda. 
There  sat  his  daughter,  and  a  few  feet  away  was 
David  Hull,  his  long  form  stretched  in  a  hammock 
while  he  discoursed  of  his  projects  for  a  career  as  a 

87 


THE    CONFLICT 


political  reformer.  The  sight  immensely  pleased  the 
old  man.  When  he  was  a  boy  David  Hull's  grand 
father,  Brainerd  Hull,  had  been  the  great  man  of  that 
region;  and  Martin  Hastings,  a  farm  hand  and  the 
son  of  a  farm  hand,  had  looked  up  at  him  as  the  embod 
iment  of  all  that  was  grand  and  aristocratic.  As 
Hastings  had  never  travelled,  his  notions  of  rank  and 
position  all  centred  about  Remsen  City.  Had  he  real 
ized  the  extent  of  the  world,  he  would  have  regarded 
his  ambition  for  a  match  between  the  daughter  and 
granddaughter  of  a  farm  hand  and  the  son  and  grand 
son  of  a  Remsen  City  aristocrat  as  small  and  ridicu 
lous.  But  he  did  not  realize. 

Davy  saw  him  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"No — no — don't  disturb  yourselves,"  cried  the  old 
man.  "I've  got  some  things  to  'tend  to.  You  and 
Jenny  go  right  ahead." 

And  he  was  off  to  his  own  little  room  where  he  con 
ducted  his  own  business  in  his  own  primitive  but  highly 
efficacious  way.  A  corps  of  expert  accountants  could 
not  have  disentangled  those  crabbed,  criss-crossed  fig 
ures  ;  no  solver  of  puzzles  could  have  unravelled  the 
mystery  of  those  strange  hieroglyphics.  But  to  the 
old  man  there  wasn't  a  difficult — or  a  dull — mark  in 
that  entire  set  of  dirty,  dog-eared  little  account  books. 
He  spent  hours  in  poring  over  them.  Just  to  turn 
the  pages  gave  him  keen  pleasure;  to  read,  and  to  re 
construct  from  those  hints  the  whole  story  of  some 
agitating  and  profitable  operation,  made  in  compari- 

88 


THE    CONFLICT 


son  the  delight  of  an  imaginative  boy  in  Monte  Cristo 
or  Crusoe  seem  a  cold  and  tame  emotion. 

David  talked  on  and  on,  fancying  that  Jane  was 
listening  and  admiring,  when  in  fact  she  was  busy  with 
her  own  entirely  different  train  of  thought.  She  kept 
the  young  man  going  because  she  did  not  wish  to  be 
bored  with  her  own  solitude,  because  a  man  about  al 
ways  made  life  at  least  a  little  more  interesting  than 
if  she  were  alone  or  with  a  woman,  and  because  Davy 
was  good  to  look  at  and  had  an  agreeable  voice. 

"Why,  who's  that?"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  gazing 
off  to  the  right. 

Davy  turned  and  looked.  "I  don't  know  her,"  he 
said.  "Isn't  she  queer  looking — yet  I  don't  know 
just  why." 

"It's  Selma  Gordon,"  said  Jane,  who  had  recognized 
Selma  the  instant  her  eyes  caught  a  figure  moving 
across  the  lawn. 

"The  girl  that  helps  Victor  Dorn?"  said  Davy,  aston 
ished.  "What's  she  coming  here  for?  You  don't  know 
her — do  you?" 

"Don't  you?"  evaded  Jane.  "I  thought  you  and  Mr. 
Dorn  were  such  pals." 

"Pals?"  laughed  Hull.  "Hardly  that.  We  meet 
now  and  then  at  a  workingman's  club  I'm  interested 
in — and  at  a  cafe  where  I  go  to  get  in  touch  with  the 
people  occasionally — and  in  the  street.  But  I  never 
go  to  his  office.  I  couldn't  afford  to  do  that.  And  I've 
never  seen  Miss  Gordon." 

80 


THE    CONFLICT 


"Well,  she's  worth  seeing,"  said  Jane.  "You'll 
never  see  another  like  her." 

They  rose  and  watched  her  advancing.  To  the 
usual  person,  acutely  conscious  of  self,  walking  is  not 
easy  in  such  circumstances.  But  Selma,  who  never 
bothered  about  herself,  came  on  with  that 
matchless  steady  grace  which  peasant  girls  often  get 
through  carrying  burdens  on  the  head.  Jane  called 
out: 

"So,  you've  come,  after  all." 

Selma  smiled  gravely.  Not  until  she  was  within  a 
few  feet  of  the  steps  did  she  answer:  "Yes — but  on 
business."  She  was  wearing  the  same  linen  dress.  On 
her  head  was  a  sailor  hat,  beneath  the  brim  of  which 
her  amazingly  thick  hair  stood  out  in  a  kind  of  defi 
ance.  This  hat,  this  further  article  of  Western  civiliza 
tion's  dress,  added  to  the  suggestion  of  the  absurdity 
of  such  a  person  in  such  clothing.  But  in  her  strange 
Cossack  way  she  certainly  was  beautiful — and  as 
healthy  and  hardy  as  if  she  had  never  before  been 
away  from  the  high,  wind-swept  plateaus  where  disease 
is  unknown  and  where  nothing  is  thought  of  living  to 
be  a  hundred  or  a  hundred  and  twenty-five.  Both 
before  and  after  the  introduction  Davy  Hull  gazed  at 
her  with  fascinated  curiosity  too  plainly  written  upon 
his  long,  sallow,  serious  face.  She,  intent  upon  her 
mission,  ignored  him  as  the  arrow  ignores  the  other 
birds  of  the  flock  in  its  flight  to  the  one  at  which  it  is 
aimed. 

90 


THE   CONFLICT 


"You'll  give  me  a  minute  or  two  alone?"  she  said 
to  Jane.  "We  can  walk  on  the  lawn  here." 

Hull  caught  up  his  hat.  "I  was  just  going,"  said 
he.  Then  he  hesitated,  looked  at  Selma,  stammered: 
"I'll  go  to  the  edge  of  the  lawn  and  inspect  the  view." 

Neither  girl  noted  this  abrupt  and  absurd  change  of 
plan.  He  departed.  As  soon  as  he  had  gone  half  a 
dozen  steps,  Selma  said  in  her  quick,  direct  fashion : 

"I've  come  to  see  you  about  the  strike." 

Jane  tried  to  look  cool  and  reserved.  But  that  sort 
of  expression  seemed  foolish  in  face  of  the  simplicity 
and  candor  of  Selma  Gordon.  Also,  Jane  was  not  now 
so  well  pleased  with  her  father's  ideas  and  those  of  her 
own  interest  as  she  had  been  while  she  was  talking 
with  him.  The  most  exasperating  thing  about  the  truth 
is  that,  once  one  has  begun  to  see  it — has  begun  to  see 
what  is  for  him  the  truth — the  honest  truth — he  can 
not  hide  from  it  ever  again.  So,  instead  of  looking  cold 
and  repellant,  Jane  looked  uneasy  and  guilty.  "Oh, 
yes — the  strike,"  she  murmured. 

"It  is  over,"  said  Selma.  "The  union  met  a  half 
hour  ago  and  revoked  its  action — on  Victor  Dorn's 
advice.  He  showed  the  men  that  they  had  been  trapped 
into  striking  by  the  company — that  a  riot  was  to  be 
started  and  blamed  upon  them — that  the  militia  was 
to  be  called  in  and  they  were  to  be  shot  down." 

"Oh,  no — not  that!"  cried  Jane  eagerly.  "It 
wouldn't  have  gone  as  far  as  that." 

"Yes — as  far  as  that,"  said  Selma  calmlj.  "That 

91 


THE   CONFLICT 


sort  of  thing  is  an  old  story.  It's  been  done  so  often 
— and  worse.  You  see,  the  respectable  gentlemen  who 
run  things  hire  disreputable  creatures.  They  don't  tell 
them  what  to  do.  They  don't  need  to.  The  poor 
wretches  understand  what's  expected  of  them — and  they 
do  it.  So,  the  respectable  gentlemen  can  hold  up  white 
hands  and  say  quite  truthfully,  'No  blood — no  filth  on 
these — see !'  '  Selma  was  laughing  drearily.  Her  su 
perb,  primitive  eyes,  set  ever  so  little  aslant,  were  flash 
ing  with  an  intensity  of  emotion  that  gave  Jane  Hast 
ings  a  sensation  of  terror — much  as  if  a  man  who  has 
always  lived  where  there  were  no  storms,  but  such 
gentle  little  rains  with  restrained  and  refined  thunder 
as  usually  visit  the  British  Isles,  were  to  find  himself 
in  the  midst  of  one  of  those  awful  convulsions  that  come 
crashing  down  the  gorges  of  the  Rockies.  She  mar 
veled  that  one  so  small  of  body  could  contain  such  big 
emotions. 

"You  mustn't  be  unjust,"  she  pleaded.  "We  aren't 
that  wicked,  my  dear." 

Selma  looked  at  her.  "No  matter,"  she  said.  "I  am 
not  trying  to  convert  you — or  to  denounce  your  friends 
to  you.  I'll  explain  what  I've  come  for.  In  his  speech 
to-day  and  in  inducing  the  union  to  change,  Victor  has 
shown  how  much  power  he  has.  The  men  whose  plans 
he  has  upset  will  be  hating  him  as  men  hate  only  those 
whom  they  fear." 

"Yes — I  believe  that,"  said  Jane.  "So,  you  see,  I'm 
not  blindly  prejudiced." 

92 


THE   CONFLICT 


"For  a  long  time  there  have  been  rumors  that  they 
might  kill  him " 

"Absurd!"  cried  Jane  angrily.  "Miss  Gordon,  no 
matter  how  prejudiced  you  may  be — and  I'll  admit 
there  are  many  things  to  justify  you  in  feeling  strongly 
— but  no  matter  how  you  may  feel,  your  good  sense 
must  tell  you  that  men  like  my  father  don't  commit 
murder." 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  replied  Selma.  "They 
don't  commit  murder,  and  they  don't  order  murder.  I'll 
even  say  that  I  don't  think  they  would  tolerate  mur 
der,  even  for  their  benefit.  But  you  don't  know  how 
things  are  done  in  business  nowadays.  The  men  like 
your  father  have  to  use  men  of  the  Kelly  and  the  House 
sort — you  know  who  they  are?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jane. 

"The  Kelly s  and  the  Houses  give  general  orders  to 
their  lieutenants.  The  lieutenants  pass  the  orders  along 
— and  down.  And  so  on,  until  all  sorts  of  men  are 
engaged  in  doing  all  sorts  of  work.  Dirty,  clean, 
criminal — all  sorts.  Some  of  these  men,  baffled  in  what 
they  are  trying  to  do  to  earn  their  pay — baffled  by  Vic 
tor  Dorn — plot  against  him."  Again  that  sad,  bitter 
laugh.  "My  dear  Miss  Hastings,  to  kill  a  cat  there  are 
a  thousand  ways  besides  skinning  it  alive." 

"You  are  prejudiced,"  said  Jane,  in  the  manner  of 
one  who  could  not  be  convinced. 

Selma  made  an  impatient  gesture.    "Again  I  say,  na 

matter.    Victor  laughs  at  our  fears " 

7  93 


THE   CONFLICT 


"I  knew  it,"  said  Jane  triumphantly.  "He  is  less 
foolish  than  his  followers." 

"He  simply  does  not  think  about  himself,"  replied 
Selma.  "And  he  is  right.  But  it  is  our  business  to 
think  about  him,  because  we  need  him.  Where  could 
we  find  another  like  him?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  your  movement  would  die  out,  if 
he  were  not  behind  it." 

Selma  smiled  peculiarly.  "I  think  you  don't  quite 
understand  what  we  are  about,"  said  she.  "You've 
accepted  the  ignorant  notion  of  your  class  that  we  are 
a  lot  of  silly  roosters  trying  to  crow  one  sun  out  of 
the  heavens  and  another  into  it.  The  facts  are  some 
what  different.  Your  class  is  saying,  'To-day  will  last 
forever,'  while  we  are  saying,  'No,  to-day  will  run  its 
course — will  be  succeeded  by  to-morrow.  Let  us  not 
live  like  the  fool  who  thinks  only  of  the  day.  Let  us 
be  sensible,  intelligent,  let  us  realize  that  there  will 
be  to-morrow  and  that  it,  too,  must  be  lived.  Let  us 
get  ready  to  live  it  sensibly.  Let  us  build  our  social 
system  so  that  it  will  stand  the  wear  and  tear  of  an 
other  day  and  will  not  fall  in  ruins  about  our  heads.'  ' 

"I  am  terribly  ignorant  about  all  these  things,"  said 
Jane.  "What  a  ridiculous  thing  my  education  has 
been!" 

"But  it  hasn't  spoiled  your  heart,"  cried  Selma. 
And  all  at  once  her  eyes  were  wonderfully  soft  and 
tender,  and  into  her  voice  came  a  tone  so  sweet  that 
Jane's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "It  was  to  your  heart 

94 


THE   CONFLICT 


that  I  came  to  appeal,"  she  went  on.  "Oh,  Miss  Hast 
ings — we  will  do  all  we  can  to  protect  Victor  Dorn 
— and  we  guard  him  day  and  night  without  his  knowing 
it.  But  I  am  afraid — afraid!  And  I  want  you  to 
help.  Will  you?" 

"I'll  do  anything  I  can,"  said  Jane — a  Jane  very 
different  from  the  various  Janes  Miss  Hastings  knew 
— a  Jane  who  seemed  to  be  conjuring  of  Selma  Gor 
don's  enchantments. 

"I  want  you  to  ask  your  father  to  give  him  a  fair 
show.  We  don't  ask  any  favors — for  ourselves — for 
him.  But  we  don't  want  to  see  him — "  Selma  shud 
dered  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands  " — lying 
dead  in  some  alley,  shot  or  stabbed  by  some  unknown 
thug!" 

Selma  made  it  so  vivid  that  Jane  saw  the  whole 
tragedy  before  her  very  eyes. 

"The  real  reason  why  they  hate  him,"  Selma  went 
on,  "is  because  he  preaches  up  education  and  preaches 
down  violence — and  is  building  his  party  on  intelli 
gence  instead  of  on  force.  The  masters  want  the  work- 
ingman  who  burns  and  kills  and  riots.  They  can  shoot 
him  down.  They  can  make  people  accept  any  tyranny 
in  preference  to  the  danger  of  fire  and  murder  let 
loose.  But  Victor  is  teaching  the  workingmen  to  stop 
playing  the  masters'  game  for  them.  No  wonder  they 
hate  him !  He  makes  them  afraid  of  the  day  when  the 
united  workingmen  will  have  their  way  by  organizing 
and  voting.  And  they  know  that  if  Victor  Dorn  lives, 

95 


THE   CONFLICT 


that    day   will    come    in   this    city   very,    very    soon." 

Selma  saw  Davy  Hull,  impatient  at  his  long  wait, 
advancing  toward  them.  She  said:  "You  will  talk  to 
your  father?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jane.  "And  I  assure  you  he  will  do 
what  he  can.  You  don't  know  him,  Miss  Gordon." 

"I  know  he  loves  you — I  know  he  must  love  you," 
said  Selma.  "Now,  I  must  go.  Good-by.  I  knew 
you  would  be  glad  of  the  chance  to  do  something  worth 
while." 

Jane  had  been  rather  expecting  to  be  thanked  for  her 
generosity  and  goodness.  Selma's  remark  seemed  at 
first  blush  an  irritating  attempt  to  shift  a  favor  asked 
into  a  favor  given.  But  it  was  impossible  for  her  to 
fail  to  see  Selma*s  sensible  statement  of  the  actual  truth. 
So,  she  said  honestly: 

"Thank  you  for  coming,  Miss  Gordon.  I  am  glad 
of  the  chance." 

They  shook  hands.  Selma,  holding  her  hand,  looked 
up  at  her,  suddenly  kissed  her.  Jane  returned  the  kiss. 
David  Hull,  advancing  with  his  gaze  upon  them, 
stopped  short.  Selma,  without  a  glance — because  with 
out  a  thought — in  his  direction,  hastened  away. 

When  David  rejoined  Jane,  she  was  gazing  tenderly 
after  the  small,  graceful  figure  moving  toward  the  dis 
tant  entrance  gates.  Said  David: 

"I  think  that  girl  has  got  you  hypnotized." 

Jane  laughed  and  sent  him  home.  "I'm  busy,"  she 
said.  "I've  got  something  to  do,  at  last." 

96 


Ill 


Jane  knocked  at  the  door  of  her  father's  little  office. 
"Are  you  there,  father?"  said  she. 

"Yes — come  in,  Jinny."  As  she  entered,  he  went 
on,  "But  you  must  go  right  away  again.  I've  got 
to  'tend  to  this  strike."  He  took  on  an  injured,  melan 
choly  tone.  "Those  fool  workingmen!  They're  cer 
tain  to  lose.  And  what'll  come  of  it  all?  Why,  they'll 
be  out  their  wages  and  their  jobs,  and  the  company'll 
lose  so  much  money  that  it  can't  put  on  the  new  cars 
the  public's  clamorin'  for.  The  old  cars'll  have  to  do 
for  another  year,  anyhow — maybe  two." 

Jane  had  heard  that  lugubrious  tone  from  time  to 
time,  and  she  knew  what  it  meant — an  air  of  sorrow 
concealing  secret  joy.  So,  here  was  another  benefit 
the  company — she  preferred  to  think  of  it  as  the  com 
pany  rather  than  as  lier  father — expected  to  gain  from 
the  strike.  It  could  put  off  replacing  the  miserable  old 
cars  in  which  it  was  compelling  people  to  ride.  In 
stead  of  losing  money  by  the  strike,  it  would  make 
money  by  it.  This  was  Jane's  first  glimpse  of  one  of 
the  most  interesting  and  important  truths  of  modern 
life — how  it  is  often  to  the  advantage  of  business  men 
to  have  their  own  business  crippled,  hampered,  stopped 
altogether. 

97 


THE    CONFLICT 


"You  needn't  worry,  father,"  said  she  cheerfully. 
"The  strike's  been  declared  off.** 

"What's  that?"  cried  her  father. 

"A  girl  from  down  town  just  called.  She  says  the 
union  has  called  the  strike  off  and  the  men  have  ac 
cepted  the  company's  terms." 

"But  them  terms  is  withdrawn !"  cried  Hastings,  as 
if  his  daughter  were  the  union.  He  seized  the  telephone. 
"I'll  call  up  the  office  and  order  'em  withdrawn." 

"It's  too  late,"  said  she. 

Just  then  the  telephone  bell  rang,  and  Hastings  was 
soon  hearing  confirmation  of  the  news  his  daughter 
had  brought  him.  She  could  not  bear  watching  his 
face  as  he  listened.  She  turned  her  back,  stood  gazing 
out  at  the  window.  Her  father,  beside  himself,  was 
shrieking  into  the  telephone  curses,  denunciations,  im 
possible  orders.  The  one  emergency  against  which  he 
had  not  provided  was  the  union's  ending  the  strike. 
When  you  have  struck  the  line  of  battle  of  a  general, 
however  able  and  self -controlled,  in  the  one  spot  where 
he  has  not  arranged  a  defense,  you  have  thrown  him — 
and  his  army — into  a  panic.  Some  of  the  greatest 
tactitians  in  history  have  given  way  in  those  circum 
stances  ;  so,  Martin  Hastings'  utter  loss  of  self-control 
and  of  control  of  the  situation  only  proves  that  he 
had  his  share  of  human  nature.  He  had  provided 
against  the  unexpected;  he  had  not  provided  against 
the  impossible. 

Jane  let  her  fatEer  rave  on  into  the  telephone  until 

98 


THE    CONFLICT 


his  voice  grew  hoarse  and  squeaky.  Then  she  turned 
and  said:  "Now,  father — what's  the  use  of  making 
yourself  sick?  You  can't  do  any  good — can  you?" 
She  laid  one  hand  on  his  arm,  with  the  other  hand 
caressed  his  head.  "Hang  up  the  receiver  and  think 
of  your  health." 

"I  don't  care  to  live,  with  such  goings-on,"  declared 
he.  But  he  hung  up  the  receiver  and  sank  back  in  his 
chair,  exhausted. 

"Come  out  on  the  porch,"  she  went  on,  tugging 
gently  at  him.  "The  air's  stuffy  in  here." 

He  rose  obediently.  She  led  him  to  the  veranda  and 
seated  him  comfortably,  with  a  cushion  in  his  back  at 
the  exact  spot  at  which  it  was  most  comfortable.  She 
patted  his  shrunken  cheeks,  stood  off  and  looked  at 
him. 

"Where's  your  sense  of  humor?"  she  cried.  "You 
used  to  be  able  to  laugh  when  things  went  against  you. 
You're  getting  to  be  as  solemn  and  to  take  yourself 
as  seriously  as  Davy  Hull." 

The  old  man  made  a  not  unsuccessful  attempt  to 
smile.  "That  there  Victor  Dorn!"  said  he.  "He'll 
be  the  death  of  me,  yet." 

"What  has  he  done  now?"  said  Jane,  innocently. 

Hastings  rubbed  his  big  bald  forehead  with  his 
scrawny  hand.  "He's  tryin'  to  run  this  town — to  run 
it  to  the  devil,"  replied  he,  by  way  of  evasion. 

"Something's  got  to  be  done  about  him — eh?"  ob 
served  she,  in  a  fine  imitation  of  a  business-like  voice. 

99 


THE   CONFLICT 


"Something  will  be  done,"  retorted  he. 

Jane  winced — hid  her  distress — returned  to  the 
course  she  had  mapped  out  for  herself.  "I  hope  it 
won't  be  something  stupid,"  said  she.  Then  she  seated 
herself  and  went  on.  "Father — did  you  ever  stop  to 
wonder  whether  it  is  Victor  Dorn  or  the  changed 
times?" 

The  old  man  looked  up  abruptly  and  sharply — the 
expression  of  a  shrewd  man  when  he  catches  a  hint  of 
a  new  idea  that  sounds  as  if  it  might  have  something 
in  it. 

"You  blame  Victor  Dorn,"  she  went  on  to  explain. 
"But  if  there  were  no  Victor  Dorn,  wouldn't  you  be 
having  just  the  same  trouble?  Aren't  men  of  affairs 
having  them  everywhere — in  Europe  as  well  as  on  this 
side — nowadays  ?" 

The  old  man  rubbed  his  brow — his  nose — his  chin — 
pulled  at  the  tufts  of  hair  in  his  ears — fumbled  with 
his  cuffs.  All  of  these  gestures  indicated  interest  and 
attention. 

"Isn't  the  real  truth  not  Victor  Dorn  or  Victor 
Dorns  but  a  changed  and  changing  world?"  pursued 
the  girl.  "And  if  that's  so,  haven't  you  either  got  to 
adopt  new  methods  or  fall  back?  That's  the  way  it 
looks  to  me — and  we  women  have  got  intuitions  if  we 
haven't  got  sense." 

"/  never  said  women  hadn't  got  sense,"  replied  the 
old  man.  "I've  sometimes  said  men  ain't  got  no  sense, 
but  not  women.  Not  to  go  no  further,  the  women  make 

100 


THE    CONFLICT 


the  men  work  for  'em — don't  they?  That's  a  pretty 
good  quality  of  sense,  7  guess." 

But  she  knew  he  was  busily  thinking  all  the  time 
about  what  she  had  said.  So  she  did  not  hesitate  to 
go  on :  "Instead  of  helping  Victor  Dorn  by  giving  him 
things  to  talk  about,  it  seems  to  me  I'd  use  him, 
father." 

"Can't  do  anything  with  him.  He's  crazy,"  de 
clared  Hastings. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  replied  Jane.  "I  don't  believe 
he's  crazy.  And  I  don't  believe  you  can't  manage  him. 
A  man  like  that — a  man  as  clever  as  he  is — doesn't  be 
long  with  a  lot  of  ignorant  tenement-house  people. 
He's  out  of  place.  And  when  anything  or  anybody  is 
out  of  place,  they  can  be  put  in  their  right  place. 
Isn't  that  sense?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head — not  in  negation,  but  in 
uncertainty. 

"These  men  are  always  edging  you  on  against  Victor 
Dorn — what's  the  matter  with  them?"  pursued  Jane. 
"7  saw,  when  Davy  Hull  talked  about  him.  They're 
envious  and  jealous  of  him,  father.  They're  afraid 
he'll  distance  them.  And  they  don't  want  you  to 
realize  what  a  useful  man  he  could  be — how  he  could 
help  you  if  you  helped  him — made  friends  with  him — 
roused  the  right  kind  of  ambition  in  him." 

"When  a  man's  ambitious,"  observed  Hastings, 
out  of  the  fullness  of  his  own  personal  experience,  "it 
means  he's  got  something  inside  him,  teasing  and  nag- 

101 


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ging  at  him — something  that  won't  let  him  rest,  but 
keeps  pushing  and  pulling — and  he's  got  to  keep  fight 
ing,  trying  to  satisfy  it — and  he  can't  wait  to  pick 
his  ground  or  his  weapons." 

"And  Victor  Dorn,"  said  Jane,  to  make  it  clearer 
to  her  father  by  putting  his  implied  thought  into  words, 
"Victor  Dorn  is  doing  the  best  he  can — fighting  on 
the  only  ground  that  offers  and  with  the  only  weapons 
he  can  lay  hands  on." 

The  old  man  nodded.  "I  never  have  blamed  him — 
not  really,"  declared  he.  "A  practical  man — a  man 
that's  been  through  things — he  understands  how  these 
things  are,"  in  the  tone  of  a  philosopher.  "Yes,  I 
reckon  Victor's  doing  the  best  he  can — getting  up  by 
the  only  ladder  he's  got  a  chance  at." 

"The  way  to  get  him  off  that  ladder  is  to  give  him 
another,"  said  Jane. 

A  long  silence,  the  girl  letting  her  father  thresh  the 
matter  out  in  his  slow,  thorough  way.  Finally  her 
young  impatience  conquered  her  restraint.  "Well — 
what  do  you  think,  popsy?"  inquired  she. 

"That  I've  got  about  as  smart  a  gel  as  there  is  in 
Remsen  City,"  replied  he. 

"Don't  lay  it  on  too  thick,"  laughed  she. 

He  understood  why  she  was  laughing,  though  he 
did  not  show  it.  He  knew  what  his  much-traveled 
daughter  thought  of  Remsen  City,  but  he  held  to  his 
own  provincial  opinion,  nevertheless.  Nor,  perhaps, 
was  he  so  far  wrong  as  she  believed.  A  cross  section 

102 


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of  human  society,  taken  almost  anywhere,  will  reveal 
about  the  same  quantity  of  brain,  and  the  quality  of 
the  mill  is  the  thing,  not  of  the  material  it  may  happen 
to  be  grinding. 

She  understood  that  his  remark  was  his  way  of  let 
ting  her  know  that  he  had  taken  her  suggestion  under 
advisement.  This  meant  that  she  had  said  enough. 
And  Jane  Hastings  had  made  herself  an  adept  in  the 
art  of  handling  her  father — an  accomplishment  she 
could  by  no  means  have  achieved  had  she  not  loved  him ; 
it  is  only  when  a  woman  deeply  and  strongly  loves  a 
man  that  she  can  learn  to  influence  him,  for  only  love 
can  put  the  necessary  sensitiveness  into  the  nerves  with 
which  moods  and  prejudices  and  whims  and  such  subtle 
uncertainties  can  be  felt  out. 

The  next  day  but  one,  coming  out  on  the  front  ve 
randa  a  few  minutes  before  lunch  time  she  was  startled 
rather  than  surprised  to  see  Victor  Dorn  seated  on  a 
wicker  sofa,  hat  off  and  gaze  wandering  delightedly 
over  the  extensive  view  of  the  beautiful  farming  coun 
try  round  Remsen  City.  She  paused  in  the  doorway 
to  take  advantage  of  the  chance  to  look  at  him  when 
he  was  off  his  guard.  Certainly  that  profile  view  of 
the  young  man  was  impressive.  It  is  only  in  the  profile 
that  we  get  a  chance  to  measure  the  will  or  propelling 
force  behind  a  character.  In  each  of  the  two  main 
curves  of  Dora's  head — that  from  the  top  of  the  brow 
downward  over  the  nose,  the  lips,  the  chin  and  under, 
and  that  from  the  back  of  the  head  round  under  the 

103 


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ear  and  forward  along  the  lower  jaw — in  each  of  these 
curves  Dorn  excelled. 

She  was .  about  to  draw  back  and  make  a  formal 
entry,  when  he  said,  without  looking  toward  her : 

"Well — don't  you  think  it  would  be  safe  to  draw 
near?" 

The  tone  was  so  easy  and  natural  and  so  sympathetic 
— the  tone  of  Selma  Gordon — the  tone  of  all  natural 
persons  not  disturbed  about  themselves  or  about  others 
— that  Jane  felt  no  embarrassment  whatever.  "I've 
heard  you  were  very  clever,"  said  she,  advancing. 
"So,  I  wanted  to  have  the  advantage  of  knowing 
you  a  little  better  at  the  outset  than  you  would  know 
me." 

"But  Selma  Gordon  has  told  me  all  about  you,"  said 
he — he  had  risen  as  she  advanced  and  was  shaking 
hands  with  her  as  if  they  were  old  friends.  "Besides, 
I  saw  you  the  other  day — in  spite  of  your  effort  to 
prevent  yourself  from  being  seen." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  completely  mys 
tified. 

"I  mean  your  clothes,"  explained  he.  "They  were 
unusual  for  this  part  of  the  world.  And  when  anyone 
wears  unusual  clothes,  they  act  as  a  disguise.  Every 
one  neglects  the  person  to  center  on  the  clothes." 

"I  wore  them  to  be  comfortable,"  protested  Jane, 
wondering  why  she  was  not  angry  at  this  young  man 
whose  manner  ought  to  be  regarded  as  presuming  and 
whose  speech  ought  to  be  rebuked  as  impertinent. 

104. 


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"Altogether?"  said  Dorn,  his  intensely  blue  eyes 
dancing. 

In  spite  of  herself  she  smiled.  "No — not  altogether," 
she  admitted. 

"Well,  it  may  please  you  to  learn  that  you  scored 
tremendously  as  far  as  one  person  is  concerned.  My 
small  nephew  talks  of  you  all  the  time — the  'lady  in 
the  lovely  pants.'  ' 

Jane  colored  deeply  and  angrily.  She  bent  upon 
Victor  a  glance  that  ought  to  have  put  him  in  his  place 
— well  down  in  his  place.  But  he  continued  to  look  at 
her  with  unchanged,  laughing,  friendly  blue  eyes,  and 
went  on :  "By  the  way,  his  mother  asked  me  to  apologize 
for  his  extraordinary  appearance.  I  suppose  neither 
of  you  would  recognize  the  other  in  any  dress  but  the 
one  each  had  on  that  day.  He  doesn't  always  dress 
that  way.  His  mother  has  been  ill.  He  wore  out  his 
play-clothes.  If  you've  had  experience  of  children 
you'll  know  how  suddenly  they  demolish  clothes.  She 
wasn't  well  enough  to  do  any  tailoring,  so  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  send  Leonard  forth  in  his  big 
brother's  unchanged  cast-offs." 

Jane's  anger  had  quite  passed  away  before  Dorn 
finished  this  simple,  ingenuous  recital  of  poverty  un 
ashamed,  this  somehow  fine  laying  open  of  the  inmost 
family  secrets.  "What  a  splendid  person  your  sister 
must  be!"  exclaimed  she. 

She  more  than  liked  the  look  that  now  came  into  his 
face.  He  said:  "Indeed  she  is! — more  so  than  anyone 

105 


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except  us  of  the  family  can  realize.  Mother's  getting 
old  and  almost  helpless.  My  brother-in-law  was  para 
lyzed  by  an  accident  at  the  rolling  mill  where  he  worked. 
My  sister  takes  care  of  both  of  them — and  her  two 
boys — and  of  me — keeps  the  house  in  band-box  order, 
manages  a  big  garden  that  gives  us  most  of  what  we 
eat — and  has  time  to  listen  to  the  woes  of  all  the 
neighbors  and  to  give  them  the  best  advice  I  ever 
heard." 

"How  can  she?"  cried  Jane.  "Why,  the  day  isn't 
long  enough." 

Dorn  laughed.  "You'll  never  realize  how  much  time 
there  is  in  a  day,  Miss  Jane  Hastings,  until  you  try 
to  make  use  of  it  all.  It's  very  interesting — how  much 
there  is  in  a  minute  and  in  a  dollar  if  you're  intelligent 
about  them." 

Jane  looked  at  him  in  undisguised  wonder  and  ad 
miration.  "You  don't  know  what  a  pleasure  it  is," 
she  said,  "to  meet  anyone  whose  sentences  you  couldn't 
finish  for  him  before  he's  a  quarter  the  way  through 
them." 

Victor  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed — a  boyish 
outburst  that  would  have  seemed  boorish  in  another, 
but  came  as  naturally  from  him  as  song  from  a  bird. 
"You  mean  Davy  Hull,"  said  he.' 

Jane  felt  herself  coloring  even  more.  "I  didn't  mean 
him  especially,"  replied  she.  "But  he's  a  good  ex 
ample." 

"The  best  I  know,"  declared  Victor.  "You  see,  the 
106 


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trouble  with  Davy  is  that  he  is  one  kind  of  a  person, 
wants  to  be  another  kind,  thinks  he  ought  to  be  a  third 
kind,  and  believes  he  fools  people  into  thinking  he.  is 
still  a  fourth  kind."  ^ 

Jane  reflected  on  this,  smiled  understandingly.  "That 
sounds  like  a  description  of  me"  said  she. 

"Probably,"  said  Victor.  "It's  a  very  usual  type 
in  the  second  generation  in  your  class." 

"My  class?"  said  Jane,  somewhat  affectedly.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

"The  upper  class,"  explained  Victor. 

Jane  felt  that  this  was  an  opportunity  for  a  fine  ex 
hibition  of  her  democracy.  "I  don't  like  that,"  said 
she.  "I'm  a  good  American,  and  I  don't  believe  in 
classes.  I  don't  feel — at  least  I  try  not  to  feel — any 
sense  of  inequality  between  myself  and  those — those 
less — less — fortunately  off.  I'm  not  expressing  myself 
well,  but  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean,"  rejoined  Victor. 
"But  that  wasn't  what  I  meant,  at  all.  You  are  talk 
ing  about  social  classes  in  the  narrow  sense.  That  sort 
of  thing  isn't  important.  One  associates  with  the  kind 
of  people  that  pleases  one — and  one  has  a  perfect  right 
to  do  so.  If  I  choose  to  have  my  leisure  time  with 
people  who  dress  a  certain  way,  or  with  those  who 
have  more  than  a  certain  amount  of  money,  or  more 
.than  a  certain  number  of  servants  or  what  not — why, 
that's  my  own  lookout." 

107 


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"I'm  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  cried  Jane. 
"That's  so  sensible." 

"Snobbishness  may  be  amusing,"  continued  Dorn, 
"or  it  may  be  repulsive — or  pitiful.  But  it  isn't  either 
interesting  or  important.  The  classes  I  had  in  mind 
were  the  economic  classes — upper,  middle,  lower.  The 
upper  class  includes  all  those  who  live  without  work — 
aristocrats,  gamblers,  thieves,  preachers,  women  living 
off  men  in  or  out  of  marriage,  grown  children  liv 
ing  off  their  parents  or  off  inheritances.  All  the 
idlers." 

Jane  looked  almost  as  uncomfortable  as  she  felt. 
She  had  long  taken  a  secret  delight  in  being  regarded 
and  spoken  of  as  an  "upper  class"  person.  Hence 
forth  this  delight  would  be  at  least  alloyed. 

"The  middle  class,"  pursued  Victor,  "is  those  who 
are  in  part  parasites  and  in  part  workers.  The  lower 
class  is  those  who  live  by  what  they  earn  only.  For 
example,  you  are  upper  class,  your  father  is  middle 
class  and  I  am  lower  class." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Jane  demurely,  "for  an  interest 
ing  lesson  in  political  economy." 

"You  invited  it,"  laughed  Victor.  "And  I  guess  it 
wasn't  much  more  tiresome  to  you  than  talk  about  the 
weather  would  have  been.  The  weather's  probably 
about  the  only  other  subject  you  and  I  have  in 
common." 

"That's  rude,"  said  Jane. 

"Not  as  I  meant  it,"  said  he.  "I  wasn't  exalting  my 
108 


THE   CONFLICT 


subjects  or  sneering  at  yours.  It's  obvious  that  you 
and  I  lead  wholly  different  lives." 

"I'd  much  rather  lead  your  life  than  my  awn,"  said 
Jane.  "But — you  are  impatient  to  see  father.  You 
came  to  see  him?" 

"He  telephoned  asking  me  to  come  to  dinner — that 
is,  lunch.  I  believe  it's  called  lunch  when  it's  second 
in  this  sort  of  house." 

"Father  calls  it  dinner,  and  I  call  it  lunch,  and  the 
servants  call  it  it.  They  simply  say,  'It's  ready.'  " 

Jane  went  in  search  of  her  father,  found  him  asleep 
in  his  chair  in  the  little  office,  one  of  his  dirty  little 
account  books  clasped  in  his  long,  thin  fingers  with 
their  rheumatic  side  curve.  The  maid  had  seen  him 
there  and  had  held  back  dinner  until  he  should  awaken. 
Perhaps  Jane's  entrance  roused  him;  or,  perhaps  it 
was  the  odor  of  the  sachet  powder  wherewith  her  gar 
ments  were  liberally  scented,  for  he  had  a  singularly 
delicate  sense  of  smell.  He  lifted  his  head  and,  after 
the  manner  of  aged  and  confirmed  cat-nappers,  was 
instantly  wide  awake. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  Victor  Dorn  was  coming 
for  dinner?"  said  she. 

"Oh — he's  here,  is  he?"  said  Hastings,  chuckling. 
"You  see  I  took  your  advice.  Tell  Lizzie  to  lay  an 
extra  plate." 

Hastings  regarded  this  invitation  as  evidence  of  his 
breadth  of  mind,  his  freedom  from  prejudice,  his  dis 
position  to  do  the  generous  and  the  helpful  thing.  In 
8  109 


THE   CONFLICT 


fact,  it  was  evidence  of  little  more  than  his  dominant 
and  most  valuable  trait — his  shrewdness.  After  one 
careful  glance  over  the  ruins  of  his  plan,  he  appreciated 
that  Victor  Dorn  was  at  last  a  force  to  be  reckoned 
with.  He  had  been  growing,  growing — somewhat  above 
the  surface,  a  great  deal  more  beneath  the  surface.  His 
astonishing  victory  demonstrated  his  power  over  Rem- 
sen  City  labor — in  a  single  afternoon  he  had  persuaded 
the  street  car  union  to  give  up  without  hesitation  a 
strike  it  had  been  planning — at  least,  it  thought  it  had 
been  doing  the  planning — for  months.  The  Remsen 
City  plutocracy  was  by  no  means  dependent  upon  the 
city  government  of  Remsen  City.  It  had  the  county 
courts — the  district  courts — the  State  courts  even,  ex 
cept  where  favoring  the  plutocracy  would  be  too  ob 
viously  outrageous  for  judges  who  still  considered 
themselves  men  of  honest  and  just  mind  to  decide  that 
way.  The  plutocracy,  further,  controlled  all  the  legis 
lative  and  executive  machinery.  To  dislodge  it  from 
these  fortresses  would  mean  a  campaign  of  years  upon 
years,  conducted  by  men  of  the  highest  ability,  and 
enlisting  a  majority  of  the  voters  of  the  State.  Still, 
possession  of  the  Remsen  City  government  was  a  most 
valuable  asset.  A  hostile  government  could  "upset 
business,"  could  "hamper  the  profitable  investment  of 
capital,"  in  other  words  could  establish  justice  to  a 
highly  uncomfortable  degree.  This  victory  of  Dorn's 
made  it  clear  to  Hastings  that  at  last  Dorn  was  about 
to  unite  the  labor  vote  under  his  banner — which  meant 

110 


THE   CONFLICT 


that  he  was  about  to  conquer  the  city  government.  It 
was  high  time  to  stop  him  and,  if  possible,  to  give  his 
talents  better  employment. 

However,  Hastings,  after  the  familiar  human  fashion, 
honestly  thought  he  was  showing  generosity,  was  going 
out  of  his  way  to  "give  a  likely  young  fellow  a  chance." 
When  he  came  out  on  the  veranda  he  stretched  forth 
a  graciously  friendly  hand  and,  looking  shrewdly  into 
Victor's  boyishly  candid  eyes,  said: 

"Glad  to  see  you,  young  man.  I  want  to  thank  you 
for  ending  that  strike.  I  was  born  a  working  man, 
and  I've  been  one  all  my  life  and,  when  I  can't  work 
any  more,  I  want  to  quit  the  earth.  So,  being  a  work 
ing  man,  I  hate  to  see  working  men  make  fools  of  them 
selves." 

Jane  was  watching  the  young  man  anxiously.  She 
instinctively  knew  that  this  speech  must  be  rousing  his 
passion  for  plain  and  direct  speaking.  Before  he  had 
time  to  answer  she  said:  "Dinner's  waiting.  Let's 
go  in." 

And  on  the  way  she  made  an  opportunity  to  say  to 
him  in  an  undertone:  "I  do  hope  you'll  be  careful  not 
to  say  anything  that'll  upset  father.  I  have  to  warn 
every  one  who  comes  here.  His  digestion's  bad,  and 
the  least  thing  makes  him  ill,  and — "  she  smiled  charm 
ingly  at  him —  "I  hate  nursing.  It's  too  much  like 
work  to  suit  an  upper-class  person." 

There  was  no  resisting  such  an  appeal  as  that. 
Victor  sat  silent  and  ate,  and  let  the  old  man  talk 

111 


THE    CONFLICT 


on  and  on.  Jane  saw  that  it  was  a  severe  trial  to 
him  to  seem  to  be  assenting  to  her  father's  views. 
Whenever  he  showed  signs  of  casting  off  his  restraint, 
she  gave  him  a  pleading  glance.  And  the  old  man, 
so  weazened,  so  bent  and  shaky,  with  his  bowl  of 
crackers  and  milk,  was — or  seemed  to  be — proof  that 
the  girl  was  asking  of  him  only  what  was  humane. 
Jane  relieved  the  situation  by  talking  volubly  about 
herself — her  college  experiences,  what  she  had  seen  and 
done  in  Europe. 

After  dinner  Hastings  said: 

"I'll  drive  you  back  to  town,  young  man.  I'm  go 
ing  in  to  work,  as  usual.  I  never  took  a  vacation  in 
my  life.  Can  you  beat  that  record?" 

"Oh,  I  knock  off  every  once  in  a  while  for  a  month 
or  so,"  said  Dorn. 

"The  young  fellows  growing  up  nowadays  ain't 
equal  to  us  of  the  old  stock,"  said  Martin.  "They 
can't  stand  the  strain.  Well,  if  you're  ready,  we'll 
pull  out." 

"Mr.  Dorn's  going  to  stop  a  while  with  me,  father," 
interposed  Jane  with  a  significant  glance  at  Victor. 
"I  want  to  show  him  the  grounds  and  the  views." 

"All  right — all  right,"  said  her  father.  He  never 
liked  company  in  his  drives;  company  interfered  with 
his  thinking  out  what  he  was  going  to  do  at  the  office. 
"I'm  mighty  glad  to  know  you,  young  man.  I  hope 
we'll  know  each  other  better.  I  think  you'll  find  out 
that  for  a  devil  I'm  not  half  bad — eh?" 

112 


THE   CONFLICT 


Victor  bowed,  murmured  something  inarticulate, 
shook  his  host's  hand,  and  when  the  ceremony  of  part 
ing  was  over  drew  a  stealthy  breath  of  relief — which 
Jane  observed.  She  excused  herself  to  accompany 
her  father  to  his  trap.  As  he  was  climbing  in  she 
said: 

"Didn't  you  rather  like  him,  father?" 

Old  Hastings  gathered  the  reins  in  his  lean,  distorted 
hands.  "So  so,"  said  he. 

"He's  got  brains,  hasn't  he?" 

"Yes;  he's  smart;  mighty  smart."  The  old  man's 
face  relaxed  in  a  shrewd  grin.  "Too  damn  smart. 
Giddap,  Bet." 

And  he  was  gone.  Jane  stood  looking  after  the  an 
cient  phaeton  with  an  expression  half  of  amusement, 
half  of  discomfiture.  "I  might  have  known,"  reflected 
she,  "that  popsy  would  see  through  it  all." 

When  she  reappeared  in  the  front  doorway  Victor 
Dorn  was  at  the  edge  of  the  veranda,  ready  to  depart. 
As  soon  as  he  saw  her  he  said  gravely :  "I  must  be  off, 
Miss  Hastings.  Thank  you  for  the  very  interesting 
dinner."  He  extended  his  hand.  "Good  day." 

She  put  her  hands  behind  her  back,  and  stood  smil 
ing  gently  at  him.  "You  mustn't  go — not  just  yet. 
I'm  about  to  show  you  the  trees  and  the  grass,  the 
bees,  the  chickens  and  the  cows.  Also,  I've  some 
thing  important  to  say  to  you." 

He  shook  his  head.    "I'm  sorry,  but  I  must  go." 

She  stiffened  slightly;  her  smile  changed  from 
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friendly  to  cold.  "Oh — pardon  me,"  she  said.  "Good- 
by." 

He  bowed,  and  was  on  the  walk,  and  running  rapidly 
toward  the  entrance  gates. 

"Mr.  Dora!"  she  called. 

He  turned. 

She  was  afraid  to  risk  asking  him  to  come  back  for 
a  moment.  He  might  refuse.  Standing  there,  look 
ing  so  resolute,  so  completley  master  of  himself,  so 
devoid  of  all  suggestion  of  need  for  any  one  or  any 
thing,  he  seemed  just  the  man  to  turn  on  his  heel  and 
depart.  She  descended  to  the  walk  and  went  to  him. 
She  said: 

"Why  are  you  acting  so  peculiarly?  Why  did  you 
come?" 

"Because  I  understood  that  your  father  wished  to 
propose  some  changes  in  the  way  of  better  hours  and 
better  wages  for  the  men,"  replied  he.  "I  find  that  the 
purpose  was — not  that." 

"What  was  it?" 

"I  do  not  care  to  go  into  that." 

He  was  about  to  go  on — on  out  of  her  life  forever, 
she  felt.  "Wait,"  she  cried.  "The  men  will  get  better 
hours  and  wages.  You  don't  understand  father's  ways. 
He  was  really  discussing  that  very  thing — in  his  own 
mind.  You'll  see.  He  has  a  great  admiration  for  you. 
You  can  do  a  lot  with  him.  You  owe  it  to  the  men  to 
make  use  of  his  liking." 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
114 


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said:  "I'll  have  to  be  at  least  partly  frank  with  you. 
In  all  his  life  no  one  has  ever  gotten  anything  out  of 
your  father.  He  uses  men.  They  do  not  use  him." 

"Believe  me,  that  is  unjust,"  cried  Jane.  "I'll  tell 
you  another  thing  that  was  on  his  mind.  He  wants  to 
— to  make  reparation  for — that  accident  to  your  father. 
He  wants  to  pay  your  mother  and  you  the  money  the 
road  didn't  pay  you  when  it  ought." 

Dorn's  candid  face  showed  how  much  he  was  im 
pressed.  This  beautiful,  earnest  girl,  sweet  and  frank, 
seemed  herself  to  be  another  view  of  Martin  Hastings* 
character — one  more  in  accord  with  her  strong  belief 
in  the  essential  goodness  of  human  nature.  Said  he : 
"Your  father  owes  us  nothing.  As  for  the  road — its 
debt  never  existed  legally — only  morally.  And  it  has 
been  outlawed  long  ago — for  there's  a  moral  statute 
of  limitations,  too.  The  best  thing  that  ever  happened 
to  us  was  our  not  getting  that  money.  It  put  us  on 
our  mettle.  It  might  have  crushed  us.  It  happened 
to  be  just  the  thing  that  was  needed  to  make  us." 

Jane  marveled  at  this  view  of  his  family,  at  the  verge 
of  poverty,  as  successful.  But  she  could  not  doubt  his 
sincerity.  Said  she  sadly,  "But  it's  not  to  the  credit  of 
the  road — or  of  father.  He  must  pay — and  he  knows 
he  must." 

"We  can't  accept,"  said  Dorn — a  finality. 

"But  you  could  use  it  to  build  up  the  paper,"  urged 
Jane,  to  detain  him. 

"The  paper  was  started  without  money.  It  lives 
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without  money — and  it  will  go  on  living  without  money, 
or  it  ought  to  die." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Jane.  "But  I  want  to  un 
derstand.  I  want  to  help.  Won't  you  let  me?" 

He  shook  his  head  laughingly.  "Help  what?"  in 
quired  he.  "Help  raise  the  sun?  It  doesn't  need 
help." 

Jane  began  to  see.  "I  mean,  I  want  to  be  helped," 
she  cried. 

"Oh,  that's  another  matter,"  said  he.  "And  very 
simple." 

"Will  you  help  me?" 

"I  can't.  No  one  can.  You've  got  to  help  yourself. 
Each  one  of  us  is  working  for  himself — working  not 
to  be  rich  or  to  be  famous  or  to  be  envied,  but  to  be 
free." 

"Working  for  himself — that  sounds  selfish,  doesn't 
it?" 

"If  you  are  wise,  Jane  Hastings,"  said  Dorn,  "you 
will  distrust — disbelieve  in — anything  that  is  not 
selfish." 

Jane  reflected.  "Yes — I  see,"  she  cried.  "I  never 
thought  of  that !" 

"A  friend  of  mine,  Wentworth,"  Victor  went  on,  "has 
put  it  wonderfully  clearly.  He  said,  'Some  day  we 
shall  realize  that  no  man  can  be  free  until  all  men  are 
free.' " 

"You  have  helped  me — in  spite  of  your  fierce  re 
fusal,"  laughed  Jane.  "You  are  very  impatient  to  go, 

116 


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aren't  you?  Well,  since  you  won't  stay  I'll  walk  with 
you — as  far  as  the  end  of  the  shade." 

She  was  slightly  uneasy  lest  her  overtures  should 
be  misunderstood.  By  the  time  they  reached  the  first 
long,  sunny  stretch  of  the  road  down  to  town  she  was 
so  afraid  that  those  overtures  would  not  be  "misun 
derstood"  that  she  marched  on  beside  him  in  the  hot 
sun.  She  did  not  leave  him  until  they  reached  the 
corner  of  Pike  avenue — and  then  it  was  he  that  left 
her,  for  she  could  cudgel  out  no  excuse  for  going 
further  in  his  direction.  The  only  hold  she  had  got 
upon  him  for  a  future  attempt  was  slight  indeed — he 
had  vaguely  agreed  to  lend  her  some  books. 

People  who  have  nothing  to  do  get  rid  of  a  great 
deal  of  time  in  trying  to  make  impressions  and  in 
speculating  as  to  what  impressions  they  have  made. 
Jane — hastening  toward  Martha's  to  get  out  of  the 
sun  which  could  not  but  injure  a  complexion  so  deli 
cately  fine  as  hers — gave  herself  up  to  this  form  of  oc 
cupation.  What  did  he  think  of  her?  Did  he  really 
have  as  little  sense  of  her  physical  charm  as  he  seemed? 
No  woman  could  hope  to  be  attractive  to  every  man. 
Still— this  man  surely  must  be  at  least  not  altogether 
insensible.  "If  he  sends  me  those  books  to-day — or  to 
morrow — or  even  next  day,"  thought  Jane,  "it  will  be 
a  pretty  sure  sign  that  he  was  impressed — whether  he 
knows  it  or  not." 

She  had  now  definitely  passed  beyond  the  stage  where 
she  wondered  at  herself — and  reproached  herself — for 

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wishing  to  win  a  man  of  such  common  origin  and  sur 
roundings.  She  could  not  doubt  Victor  Dorn's  superi 
ority.  Such  a  man  as  that  didn't  need  birth  or  wealth 
or  even  fame.  He  simply  was  the  man  worth  while — 
worth  any  woman's  while.  How  could  Selma  be  asso 
ciated  so  intimately  with  him  without  trying  to  get  him 
in  love  with  her?  Perhaps  she  had  tried  and  had  given 
up?  No — Selma  was  as  strange  in  her  way  as  he  was 
in  his  way.  What  a  strange — original — individual  pair 
they  were ! 

"But,"  concluded  Jane,  "he  belongs  with  us.  I  must 
take  him  away  from  all  that.  It  will  be  interesting  to 
do  it — so  interesting  that  I'll  be  sorry  when  it's  done, 
and  I'll  be  looking  about  for  something  else  to  do." 

She  was  not  without  hope  that  the  books  would  come 
that  same  evening.  But  they  did  not.  The  next  day 
passed,  and  the  next,  and  still  no  books.  Apparently 
he  had  meant  nothing  by  his  remark,  "I've  some  books 
you'd  be  interested  to  read."  Was  his  silence  indiffer 
ence,  or  was  it  shyness?  Probably  she  could  only 
faintly  appreciate  the  effect  her  position,  her  surround 
ings  produced  in  this  man  whose  physical  surroundings 
had  always  been  as  poor  as  her  mental  surroundings — 
those  created  by  that  marvelous  mind  of  his — had  been 
splendid. 

She  tried  to  draw  out  her  father  on  the  subject  of 
the  young  man,  with  a  view  to  getting  a  hint  as  to 
whether  he  purposed  doing  anything  further.  But  old 
Hastings  would  not  talk  about  it ;  he  was  still  debating, 

118 


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was  looking  at  the  matter  from  a  standpoint  where  his 
daughter's  purely  theoretical  acumen  could  not  help  him 
to  a  decision.  Jane  rather  feared  that  where  her  fa 
ther  was  evidently  so  doubtful  he  would  follow  his  in 
variable  rule  in  doubtful  cases. 

On  the  fourth  day,  being  still  unable  to  think  of 
anything  but  her  project  for  showing  her  prowess  by 
conquering  this  man  with  no  time  for  women,  she 
donned  a  severely  plain  walking  costume  and  went  to  his 
office. 

At  the  threshold  of  the  "Sanctum"  she  stopped  short. 
Selma,  pencil  poised  over  her  block  of  copy  paper  and 
every  indication  of  impatience,  albeit  polite  impatience, 
in  her  fascinating  Cossack  face,  was  talking  to — or, 
rather,  listening  to — David  Hull.  Like  not  a  few  young 
men — and  young  women — brought  up  in  circumstances 
that  surround  them  with  people  deferential  for  the  sake 
of  what  there  is,  or  may  possibly  be,  in  it — Davy  Hull 
had  the  habit  of  assuming  that  all  the  world  was  as 
fond  of  listening  to  him  as  he  was  of  listening  to  him 
self.  So  it  did  not  often  occur  to  him  to  observe  his 
audience  for  signs  of  a  willingness  to  end  the  conversa 
tion. 

Selma,  turning  a  little  further  in  her  nervousness,  saw 
Jane  and  sprang  up  with  a  radiant  smile  of  welcome. 
"I'm  so  glad!"  she  cried,  rushing  toward  her  and  kiss 
ing  her.  "I've  thought  about  you  often,  and  wished  I 
could  find  time  to  come  to  see  you." 

Jane  was  suddenly  as  delighted  as  Selma.  For  Sel- 

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ma's  burst  of  friendliness,  so  genuine,  so  unaffected,  in 
this  life  of  blackness  and  cold  always  had  the  effect  of 
sun  suddenly  making  summer  out  of  a  chill  autumnal 
day.  Nor,  curiously  enough,  was  her  delight  lessened 
by  Davy  Hull's  blundering  betrayal  of  himself.  His 
color,  his  eccentric  twitchings  of  the  lips  and  the  hands 
would  have  let  a  far  less  astute  young  woman  than 
Jane  Hastings  into  the  secret  of  the  reason  for  his  pres 
ence  in  that  office  when  he  had  said  he  couldn't  "afford" 
to  go.  So  guilty  did  he  feel  that  he  stammered  out : 

"I  dropped  in  to  see  Dorn." 

"You  wished  to  see  Victor?"  exclaimed  the  guileless 
Selma.  "Why  didn't  you  say  so?  I'd  have  told  you 
at  once  that  he  was  in  Indianapolis  and  wouldn't  be  back 
for  two  or  three  days." 

Jane  straightway  felt  still  better.  The  disgusting 
mystery  of  the  books  that  did  not  come  was  now 
cleared  up.  Secure  in  the  certainty  of  Selma's  indiffer 
ence  to  Davy  she  proceeded  to  punish  him.  "What  a 
stupid  you  are,  Davy !"  she  cried  mockingly.  "The  in 
stant  I  saw  your  face  I  knew  you  were  here  to  flirt  with 
Miss  Gordon." 

"Oh,  no,  Miss  Hastings,"  protested  Selma  with  quaint 
intensity  of  seriousness,  "I  assure  you  he  was  not  flirt 
ing.  He  was  telling  me  about  the  reform  movement  he 
and  his  friends  are  organizing." 

"That  is  his  way  of  flirting,"  said  Jane.  "Every 
animal  has  its  own  way — and  an  elephant's  way  is  dif 
ferent  from  a  mosquito's." 

120 


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Selma  was  eyeing  Hull  dubiously.  It  was  bad  enough 
for  him  to  have  taken  her  time  in  a  well-meaning  at 
tempt  to  enlighten  her  as  to  a  new  phase  of  local  poli 
tics  ;  to  take  her  time,  to  waste  it,  in  flirting — that  was 
too  exasperating ! 

"Miss  Hastings  has  a  sense  of  humor  that  runs  riot 
at  times,"  said  Hull. 

"You  can't  save  yourself,  Davy,"  mocked  Jane. 
"Come  along.  Miss  Gordon  has  no  time  for  either  of 
us." 

"I  do  want  you  to  stay,"  she  said  to  Jane.  "But,  un 
fortunately,  with  Victor  away "  She  looked  dis 
consolately  at  the  half-finished  page  of  copy. 

"I  came  only  to  snatch  Davy  away,"  said  Jane. 
"Next  thing  we  know,  he'll  be  one  of  Mr.  Dorn's  lieu 
tenants." 

Thus  Jane  escaped  without  having  to  betray  why  she 
had  come.  In  the  street  she  kept  up  her  raillery.  "And 
a  working  girl,  Davy!  What  would  our  friends  say! 
And  you  who  are  always  boasting  of  your  fastidious 
ness!  Flirting  with  a  girl  who — I've  seen  her  three 
times,  and  each  time  she  has  had  on  exactly  the  same 
plain,  cheap  little  dress." 

There  was  a  nastiness,  a  vulgarity  in  this  that  was 
as  unworthy  of  Jane  as  are  all  the  unlovely  emotions 
of  us  who  are  always  sweet  and  refined  when  we  are 
our  true  selves — but  have  a  bad  habit  of  only  too  of  ten 
not  being  what  we  flatter  ourselves  is  our  true  selves. 
Jane  was  growing  angry  as  she,  away  from  Selma, 

121 


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resumed  her  normal  place  in  the  world  and  her  normal 
point  of  view.  Davy  Hull  belonged  to  her ;  he  had  no 
right  to  be  hanging  about  another,  anyway — especially 
an  attractive  woman.  Her  anger  was  not  lessened  by 
Davy's  retort.  Said  he: 

"Her  dress  may  have  been  the  same.  But  her  face 
wasn't — and  her  mind  wasn't.  Those  things  are  more 
difficult  to  change  than  a  dress." 

She  was  so  angry  that  she  did  not  take  warning 
from  this  reminder  that  Davy  was  by  no  means  merely  a 
tedious  retailer  of  stale  commonplaces.  She  said  with 
fine  irony — and  with  no  show  of  anger:  "It  is  always 
a  shock  to  a  lady  to  realize  how  coarse  men  are — how 
they  don't  discriminate." 

Davy  laughed.  "Women  get  their  rank  from 
men,"  said  he  coolly.  "In  themselves  they  have  none. 
That's  the  philosophy  of  the  peculiarity  you've 
noted." 

This  truth,  so  galling  to  a  lady,  silenced  Jane,  made 
her  bite  her  lips  with  rage.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  she 
finally  said.  "I  didn't  realize  that  you  were  in  love  with 
Selma." 

"Yes,  I  am  in  love  with  her,"  was  Davy's  astounding 
reply.  "She's  the  noblest  and  simplest  creature  I've 
ever  met." 

"You  don't  mean  you  want  to  marry  her !"  exclaimed 
Jane,  so  amazed  that  she  for  the  moment  lost  sight  of 
her  own  personal  interest  in  this  affair. 

Davy  looked  at  her  sadly,  and  a  little  contemptuously. 
122 


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"What  a  poor  opinion  at  bottom  you  women — your 
sort  of  women — have  of  woman,"  said  he. 

"What  a  poor  opinion  of  men  you  mean,"  retorted 
she.  "After  a  little  experience  of  them  a  girl — even 
a  girl — learns  that  they  are  incapable  of  any  emotion 
that  isn't  gross." 

"Don't  be  so  ladylike,  Jane,"  said  Hull. 

Miss  Hastings  was  recovering  control  of  herself. 
She  took  a  new  tack.  "You  haven't  asked  her  yet?" 

"Hardly.  This  is  the  second  time  I've  seen  her.  I 
suspected  that  she  was  the  woman  for  me  the  moment 
I  saw  her.  To-day  I  confirmed  my  idea.  She  is  all 
that  I  thought — and  more.  And,  Jane,  I  know  that 
you  appreciate  her,  too." 

Jane  now  saw  that  Davy  was  being  thus  abruptly  and 
speedily  confiding  because  he  had  decided  it  was  the 
best  way  out  of  his  entanglement  with  her.  Behind 
his  coolness  she  could  see  an  uneasy  watchfulness — the 
fear  that  she  might  try  to  hold  him.  Up  boiled  her 
rage — the  higher  because  she  knew  that  if  there  were 
any  possible  way  of  holding  Davy,  she  would  take  it — 
not  because  she  wished  to,  or  would,  marry  him,  but  be 
cause  she  had  put  her  mark  upon  him.  But  this  new 
rage  was  of  the  kind  a  clever  woman  has  small  difficulty 
in  dissembling. 

"Indeed  I  do  appreciate  her,  Davy,"  said  she  sweetly. 
"And  I  hope  you  will  be  happy  with  her." 

"You  think  I  can  get  her?"  said  he,  fatuously  eager. 
"You  think  she  likes  me?  I've  been  rather  hoping  that 

123 


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because  it  seized  me  so  suddenly  and  so  powerfully  it 
must  have  seized  her,  too.  I  think  often  things  occur 
that  way." 

"In  novels,"  said  Jane,  pleasantly  judicial.  "But  in 
real  life  about  the  hardest  thing  to  do  is  for  a  man  to 
make  a  woman  care  for  him — really  care  for  him." 

"Well,  no  matter  how  hard  I  have  to  try " 

"Of  course,"  pursued  Miss  Hastings,  ignoring  his 
interruption,  "when  a  man  who  has  wealth  and  position 
asks  a  woman  who  hasn't  to  marry  him,  she  usually 
accepts — unless  he  happens  to  be  downright  repulsive, 
or  she  happens  to  be  deeply  and  hopefully  in  love  with 
another  man." 

Davy  winced  satisfactorily.  "Do  you  suspect,"  he 
presently  asked,  "that  she's  in  love  with  Victor  Dorn?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Jane  reflectively.  "Probably.  But 
I'd  not  feel  discouraged  by  that  if  I  were  you." 

"Dorn's  a  rather  attractive  chap  in  some  ways." 

Davy's  manner  was  so  superior  that  Jane  almost 
laughed  in  his  face.  What  fools  men  were.  If  Victor 
Dorn  had  position,  weren't  surrounded  by  his  unques 
tionably,  hopelessly  common  family,  weren't  deliberately 
keeping  himself  common — was  there  a  woman  in  the 
world  who  wouldn't  choose  him  without  a  second  thought 
being  necessary,  in  preference  to  a  Davy  Hull?  How 
few  men  there  were  who  could  reasonably  hope  to  hold 
their  women  against  all  comers.  Victor  Dorn  might 
possibly  be  of  those  few.  But  Davy  Hull — the  idea  was 
ridiculous.  All  his  advantages — height,  looks,  money, 

124 


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position — were  excellent  qualities  in  a  show  piece;  but 
they  weren't  the  qualities  that  make  a  woman  want  to 
live  her  life  with  a  man,  that  make  her  hope  he  will  be 
able  to  give  her  the  emotions  woman-nature  craves  be 
yond  anything. 

"He  is  very  attractive,"  said  Jane,  "and  I've  small 
doubt  that  Selma  Gordon  is  infatuated  with  him.  But 
— I  shouldn't  let  that  worry  me  if  I  were  you."  She 
paused  to  enjoy  his  anxiety,  then  proceeded:  "She  is 
a  level-headed  girl.  The  girls  of  the  working  class — 
the  intelligent  ones — have  had  the  silly  sentimentalities 
knocked  out  of  them  by  experience.  So,  when  you  ask 
her  to  marry  you,  she  will  accept." 

"What  a  low  opinion  you  have  of  her!"  exclaimed 
Davy.  "What  a  low  view  you  take  of  life!" — most 
inconsistent  of  him,  since  he  was  himself  more  than  half 
convinced  that  Jane's  observations  were  not  far  from 
the  truth. 

"Women  are  sensible,"  said  Jane  tranquilly.  "They 
appreciate  that  they've  got  to  get  a  man  to  support 
them.  Don't  forget,  my  dear  Davy,  that  marriage  is  a 
woman's  career." 

"You  lived  abroad  too  long,"  said  Hull  bitterly. 

"I've  lived  at  home  and  abroad  long  enough  and  in 
telligently  enough  not  to  think  stupid  hypocrisies,  even 
if  I  do  sometimes  imitate  other  people  and  say  them." 

"I. am  sure  that  Selma  Gordon  would  no  more  think 
of  marrying  me  for  any  other  reason  but  love — would 
no  more  think  of  it  than — than  you  would !" 
9  125 


THE   CONFLICT 


"No  more,"  was  Jane's  unruffled  reply.  "But  just  as 
much.  I  didn't  absolutely  refuse  you,  when  you  asked 
me  the  other  day,  partly  because  I  saw  no  other  way  of 
stopping  your  tiresome  talk — and  your  unattractive 
way  of  trying  to  lay  hands  on  me.  I  detest  being 
handled." 

Davy  was  looking  so  uncomfortable  that  he  at 
tracted  the  attention  of  the  people  they  were  passing 
in  wide,  shady  Lincoln  Avenue. 

"But  my  principal  reason,"  continued  Jane,  merci 
lessly  amiable  and  candid,  "was  that  I  didn't  know  but 
that  you  might  prove  to  be  about  the  best  I  could  get, 
as  a  means  to  realizing  my  ambition."  She  looked 
laughingly  at  the  unhappy  young  man.  "You  didn't 
think  I  was  in  love  with  you,  did  you,  Davy  dear?" 
Then,  while  the  confusion  following  this  blow  was  at  its 
height,  she  added:  "You'll  remember  one  of  your  chief 
arguments  for  my  accepting  you  was  ambition.  You 
didn't  think  it  low  then — did  you?" 

Hull  was  one  of  the  dry-skinned  people.  But  if  he 
had  been  sweating  profusely  he  would  have  looked 
and  would  have  been  less  wretched  than  burning  up  in 
the  smothered  heat  of  his  misery. 

They  were  nearing  Martha's  gates.  Jane  said :  "Yes, 
Davy,  you've  got  a  good  chance.  And  as  soon  as  she 
gets  used  to  our  way  of  living,  she'll  make  you  a  good 
wife."  She  laughed  gayly.  "She'll  not  be  quite  so 
pretty  when  she  settles  down  and  takes  on  flesh.  I  won 
der  how  she'll  look  in  fine  clothes  and  jewels."  She 

126 


THE   CONFLICT 


measured  Hull's  stature  with  a  critical  eye.  "She's  only 
about  half  as  tall  as  you.  How  funny  you'll  look  to 
gether!"  With  sudden  soberness  and  sweetness,  "But, 
seriously,  David,  I'm  proud  of  your  courage  in  taking 
a  girl  for  herself  regardless  of  her  surroundings.  So 
few  men  would  be  willing  to  face  the  ridicule  and  the 
criticism,  and  all  the  social  difficulties."  She  nodded 
encouragingly.  "Go  in  and  win!  You  can  count  on 
my  friendship — for  I'm  in  love  with  her  myself." 

She  left  him  standing  dazedly,  looking  up  and  down 
the  street  as  if  it  were  some  strange  and  pine-beset 
highway  in  a  foreign  land.  After  taking  a  few  steps 
she  returned  to  the  gates  and  called  him :  "I  forgot  to 
ask — do  you  want  me  to  regard  what  you've  told  me  as 
confidential?  I  was  thinking  of  telling  Martha  and 
Hugo,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  you  might  not  like 
it." 

"Please  don't  say  anything  about  it,"  said  he  with 
panicky  eagerness.  "You  see — nothing's  settled  yet." 

"Oh,  she'll  accept  you." 

"But  I  haven't  even  asked  her,"  pleaded  Hull. 

"Oh — all  right — as  you  please." 

When  she  was  safely  within  doors  she  dropped  to  a 
chair  and  burst  out  laughing.  It  was  part  of  Jane's 
passion  for  the  sense  of  triumph  over  the  male  sex  to 
find  keen  delight  in  making  a  fool  of  a  man.  And  she 
felt  that  she  had  made  a  "perfect  jumping  jack  of  a 
fool"  of  David  Hull.  "And  I  rather  think,"  said  she  to 
herself,  "that  he'll  soon  be  back  where  he  belongs." 

127 


THE   CONFLICT 


This  with  a  glance  at  the  tall  heels  of  the  slippers  on 
the  good-looking  feet  she  was  thrusting  out  for  her  own 
inspection.  "How  absurd  for  him  to  imagine  he  could 
do  anything  unconventional.  Is  there  any  coward  any 
where  so  cowardly  as  an  American  conventional  man? 
No  wonder  I  hate  to  think  of  marrying  one  of  them. 
But — I  suppose  I'll  have  to  do  it  some  day.  What's  a 
woman  to  do  ?  She's  got  to  marry." 

So  pleased  with  herself  was  she  that  she  behaved  with 
unusual  forbearance  toward  Martha  whose  conduct  of 
late  had  been  most  trying.  Not  Martha's  sometimes 
peevish,  sometimes  plaintive  criticisms  of  her ;  these  she 
did  not  mind.  But  Martha's  way  of  ordering  her  own 
life.  Jane,  moving  about  in  the  world  with  a  good 
mind  eager  to  improve,  had  got  a  horror  of  a  wom 
an's  going  to  pieces — and  that  was  what  Martha  was 
doing. 

"I'm  losing  my  looks  rapidly,"  was  her  constant  com 
plaint.  As  she  had  just  passed  thirty  there  was,  in 
Jane's  opinion,  not  the  smallest  excuse  for  this.  The 
remedy,  the  preventive,  was  obvious — diet  and  exercise. 
But  Martha,  being  lazy  and  self-indulgent  and  not  im 
aginative  enough  to  foresee  to  what  a  pass  a  few  years 
more  of  lounging  and  stuffing  would  bring  her,  regarded 
exercise  as  unladylike  and  dieting  as  unhealthful.  She 
would  not  weaken  her  system  by  taking  less  than  was 
demanded  by  "nature's  infallible  guide,  the  healthy  ap 
petite."  She  would  not  give  up  the  venerable  and  aris 
tocratic  tradition  that  a  lady  should  ever  be  reposeful. 

128 


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"Another  year  or  so,"  warned  Jane,  "and  you'll  be  as 
steatopygous  as  the  bride  of  a  Hottentot  chief." 

"What  does  steat — that  word  mean?"  said  Martha 
suspiciously. 

"Look  in  the  dictionary,"  said  Jane.  "Its  synonyms 
aren't  used  by  refined  people." 

"I  knew  it  was  something  insulting,"  said  Martha 
with  an  injured  sniff. 

The  only  concessions  Martha  would  make  to  the 
latter-day  craze  of  women  for  youthfulness  were  buy 
ing  a  foolish  chin-strap  of  a  beauty  quack  and  con 
sulting  him  as  to  whether,  if  her  hair  continued  to  gray, 
she  would  better  take  to  peroxide  or  to  henna. 

Jane  had  come  down  that  day  with  a  severe  lecture 
on  fat  and  wrinkles  laid  out  in  her  mind  for  energetic 
delivery  to  the  fast-seeding  Martha.  She  put  off  the 
lecture  and  allowed  the  time  to  be  used  by  Martha  in 
telling  Jane  what  were  her  (Jane's)  strongest  and  less 
strong — not  weaker  but  less  strong,  points  of  physical 
charm. 

It  was  cool  and  beautiful  in  the  shade  of  the  big 
gardens  behind  the  old  Galland  house.  Jane,  listening 
to  Martha's  honest  and  just  compliments  and  to  the 
faint  murmurs  of  the  city's  dusty,  sweaty  toil,  had  a 
delicious  sense  of  the  superiority  of  her  lot — a  feeling 
that  somehow  there  must  be  something  in  the  theory 
of  rightfully  superior  and  inferior  classes — that  in  tak 
ing  what  she  had  not  earned  she  was  not  robbing  those 
who  had  earned  it,  as  her  reason  so  often  asserted,. 

129 


THE   CONFLICT 


but  was  being  supported  by  the  toil  of  others  for  high 
purposes  of  aesthetic  beauty.  Anyhow,  why  heat  one's 
self  wrestling  with  these  problems? 

When  she  was  sure  that  Victor  Dorn  must  have  re 
turned  she  called  him  on  the  telephone.  "Can't  you 
come  out  to  see  me  to-night?"  said  she.  "I've  some 
thing  important — something  you'll  think  important — 
to  consult  you  about."  She  felt  a  refusal  forming  at 
the  other  end  of  the  wire  and  hastened  to  add:  "You 
must  know  I'd  not .  ask  this  if  I  weren't  certain  you 
would  be  glad  you  came." 

"Why  not  drop  in  here  when  you're  down  town?" 
suggested  Victor. 

She  wondered  why  she  did  not  hang  up  the  receiver 
and  forget  him.  But  she  did  not.  She  murmured,  "In 
due  time  I'll  punish  you  for  this,  sir,"  and  said  to  him : 
"There  are  reasons  why  it's  impossible  for  me  to  go 
there  just  now.  And  you  know  I  can't  meet  you  in  a 
saloon  or  on  a  street  corner." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  laughed  he.  "Let  me  see. 
I'm  very  busy.  But  I  could  come  for  half  an  hour 
this  afternoon." 

She  had  planned  an  evening  session,  being  well  aware 
of  the  favorable  qualities  of  air  and  light  after  the 
matter-of-fact  sun  has  withdrawn  his  last  rays.  But 
she  promptly  decided  to  accept  what  offered.  "At 
three?" 

"At  four,"  replied  he. 

"You  haven't  forgotten  those  books?" 
130 


THE   CONFLICT 


"Books?  Oh,  yes — yes,  I  remember.  I'll  bring 
them." 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  said  she  sweetly.  "Good- 
by." 

And  at  four  she  was  waiting  for  him  on  the  front 
veranda  in  a  house  dress  that  was — well,  it  was  not 
quite  the  proper  costume  for  such  an  occasion,  but  no 
one  else  was  to  see,  and  he  didn't  know  about  that  sort 
of  thing — and  the  gown  gave  her  charms  their  best 
possible  exposure  except  evening  dress,  which  was  out  of 
the  question.  She  had  not  long  to  wait.  One  of  the 
clocks  within  hearing  had  struck  and  another  was  just 
beginning  to  strike  when  she  saw  him  coming  toward 
the  house.  She  furtively  watched  'him,  admiring  his 
walk  without  quite  knowing  why.  You  may  perhaps 
know  the  walk  that  was  Victor's — a  steady  forward 
advance  of  the  whole  body  held  firmly,  almost  rigidly 
— -the  walk  of  a  man  leading  another  to  the  scaffold, 
or  of  a  man  being  led  there  in  conscious  innocence, 
or  of  a  man  ready  to  go  wherever  his  purposes  may 
order — ready  to  go  without  any  heroics  or  fuss  of  any 
kind,  but  simply  in  the  course  of  the  day's  business. 
When  a  man  walks  like  that,  he  is  worth  observing — 
and  it  is  well  to  think  twice  before  obstructing  his  way. 

That  steady,  inevitable  advance  gave  Jane  Hastings 
an  absurd  feeling  of  nervousness.  She  had  an  impulse 
to  fly,  as  from  some  oncoming  danger.  Yet  what  was 
coming,  in  fact?  A  clever  young  man  of  the  working 
class,  dressed  in  garments  of  the  kind  his  class  dressed 

131 


THE   CONFLICT 


in  on  Sunday,  and  plebeianly  carrying  a  bundle  under 
his  arm. 

"Our  clock  says  you  are  three  seconds  late,"  cried 
she,  laughing  and  extending  her  hand  in  a  friendly, 
equal  way  that  would  have  immensely  flattered  almost 
any  man  of  her  own  class.  "But  another  protests  that 
you  are  one  second  early." 

"I'm  one  of  those  fools  who  waste  their  time  and 
their  nerves  by  being  punctual,"  said  he. 

He  laid  the  books  on  the  wicker  sofa.  But  instead 
of  sitting  Jane  said:  "We  might  be  interrupted  here. 
Come  to  the  west  Veranda." 

There  she  had  him  in  a  leafy  solitude — he  facing  her 
as  she  posed  in  fascinating  grace  in  a  big  chair.  He 
looked  at  her — not  the  look  of  a  man  at  a  woman,  but 
the  look  of  a  busy  person  at  one  who  is  about  to  show 
cause  for  having  asked  for  a  portion  of  his  valuable 
time.  She  laughed — and  laughter  was  her  best  gesture. 
"I  can  never  talk  to  you  if  you  pose  like  that,"  said 
she.  "Honestly  now,  is  your  time  so  pricelessly 
precious  ?" 

He  echoed  her  laugh  and  settled  himself  more  at  his 
ease.  "What  did  you  want  of  me?"  he  asked. 

"I  intend  to  try  to  get  better  hours  and  better  wages 
for  the  street  car  men,"  said  she.  "To  do  it,  I  must 
know  just  what  is  right — what  I  can  hope  to  get. 
General  talk  is  foolish.  If  I  go  at  father  I  must  have 
definite  proposals  to  make,  with  reasons  for  them.  I 
don't  want  him  to  evade.  I  would  have  gotten  my  in- 

132 


THE   CONFLICT 


formation  elsewhere,  but  I  could  think  of  no  one  but 
you  who  might  not  mislead  me." 

She  had  confidently  expected  that  this  carefully 
thought  out  scheme  would  do  the  trick.  He  would 
admire  her,  would  be  interested,  would  be  drawn  into 
a  position  where  she  could  enlist  him  as  a  constant  ad 
viser.  He  moved  toward  the  edge  of  his  chair  as  if 
about  to  rise.  He  said,  pleasantly  enough  but  without 
a  spark  of  enthusiasm: 

"That's  very  nice  of  you,  Miss  Hastings.  But  I 
can't  advise  you — beyond  saying  that  if  I  were  you,  I 
shouldn't  meddle." 

She — that  is,  her  vanity — was  cut  to  the  quick. 
"Oh!"  said  she  with  irony,  "I  fancied  you  wished  the 
laboring  men  to  have  a  better  sort  of  life." 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "But  I'm  not  in  favor  of  running 
hysterically  about  with  a  foolish  little  atomizer  in  the 
great  stable.  You  are  talking  charity.  I  am  working 
for  justice.  It  will  not  really  benefit  the  working  man 
for  the  company,  at  the  urging  of  a  sweet  and  lovely 
young  Lady  Bountiful,  to  deign  graciously  to  grant  a 
little  less  slavery  to  them.  In  fact,  a  well  fed,  well 
cared  for  slave  is  worse  off  than  one  who's  badly  treated 
— worse  off  because  farther  from  his  freedom.  The 
only  things  that  do  our  class  any  good,  Miss  Hastings, 
are  the  things  they  compel — compel  by  their  increased 
intelligence  and  increased  unity  and  power.  They  get 
what  they  deserve.  They  won't  deserve  more  until 
they  compel  more.  Gifts  won't  help — not  even  gifts 

133 


THE    CONFLICT 


from — "        His    intensely    blue    eyes    danced — "from 
such  charming  white  hands  so  beautifully  manicured." 

She  rose  with  an  angry  toss  of  the  head.  "I  didn't 
ask  you  here  to  annoy  me  with  impertinences  about  my 
finger  nails." 

He  rose,  at  his  ease,  good-humored,  ready  to  go. 
"Then  you  should  have  worn  gloves,"  said  he  care 
lessly,  "for  I've  been  able  to  think  only  of  your 
finger  nails — and  to  wonder  what  can  be  done  with 
hands  like  that.  Thank  you  for  a  pleasant  talk."  He 
bowed  and  smiled.  "Good-by.  Oh — Miss  Gordon  sent 
you  her  love." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Dorn?"  cried  the  girl 
desperately.  "I  want  your  friendship — your  respect. 
Can't  I  get  it?  Am  I  utterly  hopeless  in  your  eyes?" 

A  curious  kind  of  color  rose  in  his  cheeks.  His 
eyes  regarded  her  with  a  mysterious  steadiness.  "You 
want  neither  my  respect  nor  my  friendship,"  said  he. 
"You  want  to  amuse  yourself."  He  pointed  at  her 
hands.  "Those  nails  betray  you."  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  laughed,  said  as  if  to  a  child:  "You  are  a 
nice  girl,  Jane  Hastings.  It's  a  pity  you  weren't 
brought  up  to  be  of  some  use.  But  you  weren't — and 
it's  too  late." 

Her  eyes  flashed,  her  bosom  heaved.  "Why  do  I 
take  these  things  from  you?  Why  do  I  invite  them?" 

"Because  you  inherit  your  father's  magnificent  per 
sistence — and  you've  set  your  heart  on  the  whim  of 
making  a  fool  of  me — and  you  hate  to  give  up." 

134 


THE    CONFLICT 


"You  wrong  me — indeed  you  do,"  cried  she.  "I 
want  to  learn — I  want  to  be  of  use  in  the  world.  I 
want  to  have  some  kind  of  a  real  life." 

"Really  ?"  mocked  he  good-humoredly. 

"Really,"  said  she  with  all  her  power  of  sweet 
earnestness. 

"Then — cut  your  nails  and  go  to  work.  And  when 
you  have  become  a  genuine  laborer,  you'll  begin  to  try 
to  improve  not  the  condition  of  others,  but  your  own. 
The  way  to  help  workers  is  to  abolish  the  idlers  who 
hang  like  a  millstone  about  their  necks.  You  can  help 
only  by  abolishing  the  one  idler  under  your  control." 

She  stood  nearer  him,  very  near  him.  She  threw 
out  her  lovely  arms  in  a  gesture  of  humility.  "I  will 
do  whatever  you  say,"  she  said. 

They  looked  each  into  the  other's  eyes.  The  color 
fled  from  her  face,  the  blood  poured  into  his — wave 
upon  wave,  until  he  was  like  a  man  who  has  been  set 
on  fire  by  the  furious  heat  of  long  years  of  equatorial 
sun.  He  muttered,  wheeled  about  and  strode  away — 
in  resolute  and  relentless  flight.  She  dropped  down 
where  he  had  been  sitting  and  hid  her  face  in  her  per 
fumed  hands. 

"I  care  for  him,"  she  moaned,  "and  he  saw — and  he 
despises  me !  How  could  I — how  could  I !" 

Nevertheless,  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  was  in 
her  dressing  room,  standing  at  the  table,  eyes  care 
fully  avoiding  her  mirrored  eyes — as  she  cut  her  finger 
nails. 

135 


IV 


Jane  was  mistaken  in  her  guess  at  the  cause  of 
Victor  Dorn's  agitation  and  abrupt  flight.  If  he  had- 
any  sense  whatever  of  the  secret  she  had  betrayed  to 
him  and  to  herself  at  the  same  instant  it  was  wholly 
unconscious.  He  had  become  panic-stricken  and  had 
fled  because  he,  faced  with  her  exuberance  and  tempting 
wealth  of  physical  charm,  had  become  suddenly  con 
scious  of  her  and  of  himself  in  a  way  as  new  to  him 
as  if  he  had  been  fresh  from  a  monkery  where  no 
woman  had  ever  been  seen.  Thus  far  the  world  had  been 
peopled  for  him  with  human  beings  without  any  refer 
ence  to  sex.  The  phenomena  of  sex  had  not  interested 
him  because  his  mind  had  been  entirely  taken  up  with 
the  other  aspects  of  life;  and  he  had  not  yet  reached 
the  stage  of  development  where  a  thinker  grasps  the 
truth  that  all  questions  are  at  bottom  questions  of  the 
sex  relation,  and  that,  therefore,  no  question  can  be 
settled  right  until  the  sex  relations  are  settled  right. 
,  Jane  Hastings  was  the  first  girl  he  had  met  in  his 
whole  life  who  was  in  a  position  to  awaken  that  side 
of  his  nature.  And  when  his  brain  suddenly  filled  with 
a  torrent  of  mad  longings  and  of  sensuous  apprecia 
tions  of  her  laces  and  silk,  of  her  perfume  and  smooth 
ness  and  roundness,  of  the  ecstasy  that  would  come 

136 


THE    CONFLICT 


from  contact  with  those  warm,  rosy  lips — when  Victor 
Dorn  found  himself  all  in  a  flash  eager  impetuosity  to 
seize  this  woman  whom  he  did  not  approve  of,  whom 
he  did  not  even  like,  he  felt  bowed  with  shame.  He 
would  not  have  believed  himself  capable  of  such  a  thing. 
He  fled. 

He  fled,  but  she  pursued.  And  when  he  sat  down  in 
the  garden  behind  his  mother's  cottage,  to  work  at  a 
table  where  bees  and  butterflies  had  been  his  only  dis 
turbers,  there  was  this  she  before  him — her  soft,  shin 
ing  gaze  fascinating  his  gaze,  her  useless  but  lovely 
white  hands  extended  tantalizingly  toward  him.  As 
he  continued  to  look  at  her,  his  disapproval  and  dis 
like  melted.  "I  was  brutally  harsh  to  her,"  he  thought 
repentantly.  "She  was  honestly  trying  to  do  the  de 
cent  thing.  How  was  she  to  know?  And  wasn't  I 
as  much  wrong  as  right  in  advising  her  not  to  help 
the  men?" 

Beyond  question,  it  was  theoretically  best  for  the  two 
opposing  forces,  capital  and  labor,  to  fight  their  battle 
to  its  inevitable  end  without  interference,  without  truce* 
with  quarter  neither  given  nor  taken  on  either  side. 
But  practically — wasn't  there  something  to  be  said  for 
such  humane  proposals  of  that  of  Jane  Hastings? 
They  would  put  off  the  day  of  right  conditions  rightly 
and  therefore  permanently  founded — conditions  in 
which  master  and  slave  or  serf  or  wage-taker  would 
be  no  more ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  slaves  with  shorter 
hours  of  toil  and  better  surroundings  could  be  en- 

137 


THE    CONFLICT 


lightened  more  easily.  Perhaps.  He  was  by  no  means 
sure;  he  could  not  but  fear  that  anything  that  tended 
to  make  the  slave  comfortable  in  his  degradation  must 
of  necessity  weaken  his  aversion  to  degradation.  Just 
as  the  worst  kings  were  the  best  kings  because  they 
hastened  the  fall  of  monarchy,  so  the  worst  capitalists, 
the  most  rapacious,  the  most  rigid  enforcers  of  the 
economic  laws  of  a  capitalistic  society  were  the  best 
capitalists,  were  helping  to  hasten  the  day  when  men 
would  work  for  what  they  earned  and  would  earn  what 
they  worked  for — when  every  man's  pay  envelope  would 
contain  his  wages,  his  full  wages,  and  nothing  but  his 
wages. 

Still,  where  judgment  was  uncertain,  he  certainly 
had  been  unjust  to  that  well  meaning  girl.  And  was 
she  really  so  worthless  as  he  had  on  first  sight  adjudged 
her?  There  might  be  exceptions  to  the  rule  that  a  para 
site  born  and  bred  can  have  no  other  instructor  or  idea 
but  those  of  parasitism.  She  was  honest  and  earnest, 
was  eager  to  learn  the  truth.  She  might  be  put  to 
some  use.  At  any  rate  he  had  been  unworthy  of  his 
own  ideals  when  he,  assuming  without  question  that 
she  was  the  usual  capitalistic  snob  with  the  itch  for 
gratifying  vanity  by  patronizing  the  "poor  dear  lower 
classes,"  had  been  almost  insultingly  curt  and  mocking. 

"What  was  the  matter  with  me?"  he  asked  himself. 
"I  never  acted  in  that  way  before."  And  then  he  saw 
that  his  brusqueness  had  been  the  cover  for  fear  of 
of  her — fear  of  the  allure  of  her  luxury  and  her  beauty. 

138 


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In  love  with  her?  He  knew  that  he  was  not.  No,  his 
feeling  toward  her  was  merely  the  crudest  form  of  the 
tribute  of  man  to  woman — though  apparently  woman 
as  a  rule  preferred  this  form  to  any  other. 

"I  owe  her  an  apology,"  he  said  to  himself.  And 
so  it  came  to  pass  that  at  three  the  following  after 
noon  he  was  once  more  facing  her  in  that  creeper-walled 
seclusion  whose  soft  lights  were  almost  equal  to  light 
of  gloaming  or  moon  or  stars  in  romantic  charm. 

Said  he — always  direct  and  simple,  whether  dealing 
with  man  or  woman,  with  devious  person  or  straight: 

"I've  come  to  beg  your  pardon  for  what  I  said  yes 
terday." 

"You  certainly  were  wild  and  strange,"  laughed  she. 

"I  was  supercilious,"  said  he.  "And  worse  than 
that  there  is  not.  However,  as  I  have  apologized, 
and  you  have  accepted  my  apology,  we  need  waste  no 
more  time  about  that.  You  wished  to  persuade  your 
father  to " 

"Just  a  moment !"  interrupted  she.  "I've  a  question 
to  ask.  Why  did  you  treat  me — why  have  you  been 
treating  me  so — so  harshly?" 

"Because  I  was  afraid  of  you,"  replied  he.  "I  did 
not  realize  it,  but  that  was  the  reason." 

"Afraid  of  me"  said  she.    '"That's  very  flattering." 

"No,"  said  he,  coloring.  "In  some  mysterious  way 
I  had  been  betrayed  into  thinking  of  you  as  no  man 
ought  to  think  of  a  woman  unless  he  is  in  love  with 
her  and  she  with  him.  I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  But 

139 


THE   CONFLICT 


I  shall  conquer  that  feeling — or  keep  away  from  you. 
.  .  .  Do  you  understand  what  the  street  car  sit 
uation  is?" 

But  she  was  not  to  be  deflected  from  the  main  ques 
tion,  now  that  it  had  been  brought  to  the  front  so 
unexpectedly  and  in  exactly  the  way  most  favorable  to 
her  purposes.  "You've  made  me  uneasy,"  said  she.  "I 
don't  in  the  least  understand  what  you  mean.  I  have 
wanted,  and  I  still  want,  to  be  friends  with  you — good 
friends — just  as  you  and  Selma  Gordon  are — though 
of  course  I  couldn't  hope  to  be  as  close  a  friend  as 
she  is.  I'm  too  ignorant — too  useless." 

He  shook  his  head — with  him,  a  gesture  that  con 
veyed  the  full  strength  of  negation.  "We  are  on  op 
posite  sides  of  a  line  across  which  friendship  is  im 
possible.  I  could  not  be  your  friend  without  being 
false  to  myself.  You  couldn't  be  mine  unless  you  were 
by  some  accident  flung  into  the  working  class  and 
forced  to  adopt  it  as  your  own.  Even  then  you'd 
probably  remain  what  you  are.  Only  a  small  part  of 
the  working  class  as  yet  is  at  heart  of  the  working 
class.  Most  of  us  secretly — almost  openly — despise  the 
life  of  work,  and  dream  and  hope  a  time  of  fortune 
that  will  put  us  up  among  the  masters  and  the  idlers." 
His  expressive  eyes  became  eloquent.  "The  false  and 
shallow  ideas  that  have  been  educated  into  us  for  ages 
can't  be  uprooted  in  a  few  brief  years." 

She  felt  the  admiration  she  did  not  try  to  conceal. 
She  saw  the  proud  and  splendid  conception  of  the 

140 


THE    CONFLICT 


dignity  of  labor — of  labor  as  a  blessing,  not  a  curse, 
as  a  badge  of  aristocracy  and  not  of  slavery  and  shame. 
"You  really  believe  that,  don't  you?"  she  said.  "I 
know  it's  true.  I  .say  I  believe  it — who  doesn't  say 
so?  But  I  don't  feel  it." 

"That's  honest,"  said  he  heartily.  "That's  some 
thing  to  build  on." 

"And  I'm  going  to  build !"  cried  she.  "You'll  help 
me — won't  you?  I  know,  it's  a  great  deal  to  ask.  Why 
should  you  take  the  time  and  the  trouble  to  bother 
with  one  single  unimportant  person." 

"That's  the  way  I  spend  my  life— in  adding  one 
man  or  one  woman  to  our  party — one  at  a  time.  It's 
slow  building,  but  it's  the  only  kind  that  endures. 
There  are  twelve  hundred  of  us  now — twelve  hundred 
voters,  I  mean.  Ten  years  ago  there  were  only  three 
hundred.  We'd  expand  much  more  rapidly  if  it  weren't 
for  the  constant  shifts  of  population.  Our  men  are 
forced  to  go  elsewhere  as  the  pressure  of  capitalism 
gets  too  strong.  And  in  place  of  them  come  raw  emi 
grants,  ignorant,  full  of  dreams  of  becoming  capitalists 
and  exploiters  of  their  fellow  men  and  idlers.  Ambition 
they  call  it.  Ambition !"  He  laughed.  "What  a  vul 
gar,  what  a  cruel  notion  of  rising  in  the  world!  To 
cease  to  be  useful,  to  become  a  burden  to  others ! 
.  .  .  Did  you  ever  think  how  many  poor  creatures 
have  to  toil  longer  hours,  how  many  children  have  to 
go  to  the  factory  instead  of  to  school,  in  order  that 
there  may  be  two  hundred  and  seven  automobiles  pri- 
10  141 


THE   CONFLICT 


vately  kept  in  this  town  and  seventy-four  chauffeurs 
doing  nothing  but  wait  upon  their  masters?  Money 
doesn't  grow  on  bushes,  you  know.  Every  cent  of  it 
has  to  be  earned  by  somebody — and  earned  by  manual 
labor." 

"I  must  think  about  that,"  she  said — for  the  first 
time  as  much  interested  in  what  he  was  saying  as  in  the 
man  himself.  No  small  triumph  for  Victor  over  the 
mind  of  a  woman  dominated,  as  was  Jane  Hastings,  by 
the  sex  instinct  that  determines  the  thoughts  and  ac 
tions  of  practically  the  entire  female  sex. 

"Yes — think  about  it,"  he  urged.  "You  will  never 
see  it — or  anything — until  you  see  it  for  your 
self." 

"That's  the  way  your  party  is  built — isn't  it?"  in 
quired  she.  "Of  those  who  see  it  for  themselves." 

"Only  those,"  replied  he.     "We  want  no  others." 

"Not  even  their  votes?"  said  she  shrewdly. 

"Not  even  their  votes,"  he  answered.  "We've  no 
desire  to  get  the  offices  until  we  get  them  to  keep.  And 
when  we  shall  have  conquered  the  city,  we'll  move  on  to 
the  conquest  of  the  county — then  of  the  district — then 
of  the  state.  Our  kind  of  movement  is  building  in  every 
city  now,  and  in  most  of  the  towns  and  many  of  the  vil 
lages.  The  old  parties  are  falling  to  pieces  because 
they  stand  for  the  old  politics  of  the  two  factions  of 
the  upper  class  quarreling  over  which  of  them  should 
superintend  the  exploiting  of  the  people.  Very  few 
of  us  realize  what  is  going  on  before  our  very  eyes — 

1*8 


THE   CONFLICT 


that  we're  seeing  the  death  agonies  of  one  form  of 
civilization  and  the  birth-throes  of  a  newer  form." 

"And  what  will  it  be?"  asked  the  girl. 

She  had  been  waiting  for  some  sign  of  the  "crank," 
the  impractical  dreamer.  She  was  confident  that  this 
question  would  reveal  the  man  she  had  been  warned 
against — that  in  answering  it  he  would  betray  his  true 
self.  But  he  disappointed  and  surprised  her. 

"How  can  I  tell  what  it  will  be?"  said  he.  "I'm  not 
a  prophet.  All  I  can  say  is  I  am  sure  it  will  be 
human,  full  of  imperfections,  full  of  opportunities  for 
improvements — and  that  I  hope  it  will  be  better  than 
what  we  have  now.  Probably  not  much  better,  but  a 
little — and  that  little,  however  small  it  may  be,  will 
be  a  gain.  Doesn't  history  show  a  slow  but  steady  ad 
vance  of  the  idea  that  the  world  is  for  the  people  who 
live  in  it,  a  slow  retreat  of  the  idea  that  the  world  and 
the  people  and  all  its  and  their  resources  are  for  a 
favored  few  of  some  kind  of  an  upper  class?  Yes — I 
think  it  is  reasonable  to  hope  that  out  of  the  throes 
will  come  a  freer  and  a  happier  and  a  more  intelligent 
race." 

Suddenly  she  burst  out,  apparently  irrelevantly: 
"But  I  can't — I  really  can't  agree  with  you  that  every 
one  ought  to  do  physical  labor.  That  would  drag 
the  world  down — yes,  I'm  sure  it  would." 

"I  guess  you  haven't  thought  about  that,"  said  he. 
"Painters  do  physical  labor — and  sculptors — and  writ 
ers — and  all  the  scientific  men — and  the  inventors — 

143 


THE   CONFLICT 


and — "  He  laughed  at  her —  "Who  doesn't  do  physi 
cal  labor  that  does  anything  really  useful?  Why,  you 
yourself — at  tennis  and  riding  and  such  things — do 
heavy  physical  labor.  I've  only  to  look  at  your  body 
to  see  that.  But  it's  of  a  foolish  kind — foolish  and 
narrowly  selfish." 

"I  see  I'd  better  not  try  to  argue  with  you,"  said 
she. 

"No — don't  argue — with  me  or  with  anybody,"  re 
joined  he.  "Sit  down  quietly  and  think  about  life — 
about  your  life.  Think  how  it  is  best  to  live  so  that 
you  may  get  the  most  out  of  life — the  most  substantial 
happiness.  Don't  go  on  doing  the  silly  customary 
things  simply  because  a  silly  customary  world  says  they 
are  amusing  and  worth  while.  Think — and  do — for 
yourself,  Jane  Hastings." 

She  nodded  slowly  and  thoughtfully.  "I'll  try  to," 
she  said.  She  looked  at  him  with  the  expression  of 
the  mind  aroused.  It  was  an  expression  that  often 
rewarded  him  after  a  long  straight  talk  with  a  fellow 
being.  She  went  on:  "I  probably  shan't  do  what  you'd 
approve.  You  see,  I've  got  to  be  myself — got  to  live 
to  a  certain  extent  the  kind  of  a  life  fate  has  made 
for  me." 

"You  couldn't  successfully  live  any  other,"  said  he. 

"But,  while  it  won't  be  at  all  what  you'd  regard  as 
a  model  life — or  even  perhaps  useful — it'll  be  very  dif 
ferent — very  much  better — than  it  would  have  been,  if 
I  hadn't  met  you — Victor  Dora." 

144 


THE    CONFLICT 


"Oh,  I've  done  nothing,"  said  he.  "All  I  try  to  do 
is  to  encourage  my  fellow  beings  to  be  themselves.  So 
— live  your  own  life — the  life  you  can  live  best — just 
as  you  wear  the  clothes  that  fit  and  become  you.  .  .  . 
And  now — about  the  street  car  question.  What  do  you 
want  of  me  ?" 

"Tell  me  what  to  say  to  father." 

He  shook  his  head.  "Can't  do  it,"  said  he.  "There's 
a  good  place  for  you  to  make  a  beginning.  Put  on  an 
old  dress  and  go  down  town  and  get  acquainted  with 
the  family  life  of  the  street-car  men.  Talk  to  their 
wives  and  their  children.  Look  into  the  whole  business 
yourself." 

"But  I'm  not — not  competent  to  judge,"  objected 
she. 

"Well,  make  yourself  competent,"  advised  he. 

"I  might  get  Miss  Gordon  to  go  with  me,"  suggested 
she. 

"You'll  learn  more  thoroughly  if  you  go  alone,"  de 
clared  he. 

She  hesitated — ventured  with  a  winning  smile:  "You 
won't  go  with  me — just  to  get  me  started  right?" 

"No,"  said  he.  "You've  got  to  learn  for  yourself — 
or  not  at  all.  If  I  go  with  you,  you'll  get  my  point  of 
view,  and  it  will  take  you  so  much  the  longer  to  get 
your  own." 

"Perhaps  you'd  prefer  I  didn't  go." 

"It's  not  a  matter  of  much  importance,  one  way  or 
the  other — except  perhaps  to  yourself,"  replied  he. 

145 


THE   CONFLICT 


"Any  one  individual  can  do  the  human  race  little  good 
by  learning  the  truth  about  life.  The  only  benefit 
is  to  himself.  Don't  forget  that  in  your  sweet  enthu 
siasm  for  doing  something  noble  and  generous  and 
helpful.  Don't  become  a  Davy  Hull.  You  know,  Davy 
is  on  earth  for  the  benefit  of  the  human  race.  Ever 
since  he  was  born  he  has  been  taken  care  of — supplied 
with  food,  clothing,  shelter,  everything.  Yet  he  im 
agines  that  he  is  somehow  a  God — appointed  guardian 
of  the  people  who  have  gathered  and  cooked  his  food, 
made  his  clothing,  served  him  in  every  way.  It's  very 
funny,  that  attitude  of  your  class  toward  mine." 

"They  look  up  to  us,"  said  Jane.  "You  can't  blame 
us  for  allowing  it — for  becoming  pleased  with  our 
selves." 

"That's  the  worst  of  it — we  do  look  up  to  you," 
admitted  he.  "But — we're  learning  better." 

"You've  already  learned  better — you  personally,  I 
mean.  I  think  that  when  you  compare  me,  for  instance, 
with  a  girl  like  Selma  Gordon,  you  look  down  on 
me." 

"Don't  you,  yourself,  feel  that  any  woman  who  is 
self-supporting  and  free  is  your  superior?" 

"In  some  moods,  I  do,"  replied  Jane.  "In  other 
moods,  I  feel  as  I  was  brought  up  to  feel." 

They  talked  on  and  on,  she  detaining  him  without 
seeming  to  do  so.  She  felt  proud  of  her  adroitness. 
But  the  truth  was  that  his  stopping  on  for  nearly  two 
hours  was  almost  altogether  a  tribute  to  her  physical 

140 


THE    CONFLICT 


charm — though  Victor  was  unconscious  of  it.  When 
the  afteinoon  was  drawing  on  toward  the  time  for  her 
father  to  come,  she  reluctantly  let  him  go.  She  said : 

"But  you'll  come  again  ?" 

"I  can't  do  that,"  replied  he  regretfully.  "I  could 
not  come  to  your  father's  house  and  continue  free.  I 
must  be  able  to  say  what  I  honestly  think,  without  any 
restraint." 

"I  understand,"  said  she.  "And  I  want  you  to  say 
and  to  write  what  you  believe  to  be  true  and  right. 
But — we'll  see  each  other  again.  I'm  sure  we  are  going 
to  be  friends." 

His  expression  as  he  bade  her  good-by  told  her  that 
she  had  won  his  respect  and  his  liking.  She  had  a 
suspicion  that  she  did  not  deserve  either;  but  she  was 
full  of  good  resolutions,  and  assured  herself  she  soon 
would  be  what  she  had  pretended — that  her  pretenses 
were  not  exactly  false,  only  somewhat  premature. 

At  dinner  that  evening  she  said  to  her  father: 

"I  think  I  ought  to  do  something  beside  enjoy  my 
self.  I've  decided  to  go  down  among  the  poor  people 
and  see  whether  I  can't  help  them  in  some  way." 

"You'd  better  keep  away  from  that  part  of  town," 
advised  her  father.  "They  live  awful  dirty,  and  you 
might  catch  some  disease.  If  you  want  to  do  anything 
for  the  poor,  send  a  check  to  our  minister  or  to  the 
charity  society.  There's  two  kinds  of  poor — those  that 
are  working  hard  and  saving  their  money  and  getting 
up  out  of  the  dirt,  and  those  that  haven't  got  no  spunk 

147 


THE   CONFLICT 


or  get-up.  The  first  kind  don't  need  help,  and  the  sec 
ond  don't  deserve  it." 

"But  there  are  the  children,  popsy,"  urged  Jane. 
"The  children  of  the  no-account  poor  ought  to  have  a 
chance." 

"I  don't  reckon  there  ever  was  a  more  shiftless, 
do-easy  pair  than  my  father  and  mother,"  rejoined 
Martin  Hastings.  "They  were  what  set  me  to  jump- 
ing." 

She  saw  that  his  view  was  hopelessly  narrow — that, 
while  he  regarded  himself  justly  as  an  extraordinary 
man,  he  also,  for  purposes  of  prejudice  and  selfishness, 
regarded  his  own  achievements  in  overcoming  what 
would  have  been  hopeless  handicaps  to  any  but  a  giant 
in  character  and  in  physical  endurance  as  an  instance 
of  what  any  one  could  do  if  he  would  but  work.  She 
never  argued  with  him  when  she  wished  to  carry  her 
point.  She  now  said : 

"It  seems  to  me  that,  in  our  own  interest,  we  ought  to 
do  what  we  can  to  make  the  poor  live  better.  As  you 
say,  it's  positively  dangerous  to  go  about  in  the  tene 
ment  part  of  town — and  those  people  are  always  coming 
among  us.  For  instance,  our  servants  have  relatives 
living  in  Cooper  Street,  where  there's  a  pest  of  con 
sumption." 

Old  Hastings  nodded.  "That's  part  of  Davy  Hull's 
reform  programme,"  said  he.  "And  I'm  in  favor  of  it. 
The  city  government  ought  to  make  them  people  clean 
up." 


THE   CONFLICT 


"Victor  Dora  wants  that  done,  too — doesn't  he?" 
said  Jane. 

"No,"  replied  the  old  man  sourly.  "He  says  it's  no 
use  to  clean  up  the  slums  unless  you  raise  wages — and 
that  then  the  slum  people'd  clean  themselves  up.  The 
idea  of  giving  those  worthless  trash  more  money  to 
spend  for  beer  and  whisky  and  finery  for  their  fool 
daughters.  Why,  they  don't  earn  what  we  give  'em 
now." 

Jane  couldn't  resist  the  temptation  to  say,  "I  guess 
the  laziest  of  them  earn  more  than  Davy  Hull  or  I." 

"Because  some  gets  more  than  they  earn  ain't  a  rea 
son  why  others  should."  He  grinned.  "Maybe  you  and 
Davy  ought  to  have  less,  but  Victor  Dorn  and  his  riff 
raff  oughtn't  to  be  pampered.  .  .  .  Do  you  want 
me  to  cut  your  allowance  down?" 

She  was  ready  for  him.  "If  you  can  get  as  satisfac 
tory  a  housekeeper  for  less,  you're  a  fool  to  overpay 
the  one  you  have." 

The  old  man  was  delighted.  "I've  been  cheating 
you,"  said  he.  "I'll  double  your  pay." 

"You're  doing  it  just  in  time  to  stop  a  strike," 
laughed  the  girl. 

After  a  not  unknown  fashion  she  was  most  obedient 
to  her  father  when  his  commands  happened  to  coincide 
with  her  own  inclinations.  Her  ardor  for  an  excursion 
into  the  slums  and  the  tenements  died  almost  with 
Victor  Dorn's  departure.  Her  father's  reasons  for  for 
bidding  her  to  go  did  not  impress  her  as  convincing,  but 

149 


THE   CONFLICT 


she  felt  that  she  owed  it  to  him  to  respect  his  wishes. 
Anyhow,  what  could  she  find  out  that  she  did  not  know 
already?  Yes,  Dorn  and  her  father  were  right  in  the 
conclusion  each  reached  by  a  different  road.  She  would 
do  well  not  to  meddle  where  she  could  not  possibly  ac 
complish  any  good.  She  could  question  the  servants 
and  could  get  from  them  all  the  facts  she  needed  for 
urging  her  father  at  least  to  cut  down  the  hours  of 
labor. 

The  more  she  thought  about  Victor  Dorn  the  more 
uneasy  she  became.  She  had  made  more  progress  with 
him  than  she  had  hoped  to  make  in  so  short  a  time.  But 
she  had  made  it  at  an  unexpected  cost.  If  she  had 
softened  him,  he  had  established  a  disquieting  influence 
over  her.  She  was  not  sure,  but  she  was  afraid,  that 
he  was  stronger  than  she — that,  if  she  persisted  in  her 
whim,  she  would  soon  be  liking  him  entirely  too  well  for 
her  own  comfort.  Except  as  a  pastime,  Victor  Dorn 
did  not  fit  into  her  scheme  of  life.  If  she  continued  to 
see  him,  to  yield  to  the  delight  of  his  magnetic  voice,  of 
his  fresh  and  original  mind,  of  his  energetic  and  domi 
nating  personality,  might  he  not  become  aroused — be 
gin  to  assert  power  over  her,  compel  her  to — to — she 
could  not  imagine  what;  only,  it  was  foolish  to  deny 
that  he  was  a  dangerous  man.  "If  I've  got  good  sense," 
decided  she,  "I'll  let  him  alone.  I've  nothing  to  gain 
and  everything  to  lose." 

Her  motor — the  one  her  father  had  ordered  as  a 
birthday  present — came  the  next  day;  and  on  the  fol- 

150 


THE    CONFLICT 


lowing  day  two  girl  friends  from  Cincinnati  arrived 
for  a  long  visit.  So,  Jane  Hastings  had  the  help  she 
felt  she  perhaps  needed  in  resisting  the  temptings  of 
her  whim. 

To  aid  her  in  giving  her  friends  a  good  time  she 
impressed  Davy  Hull,  in  spite  of  his  protests  that  his 
political  work  made  social  fooling  about  impossible. 
The  truth  was  that  the  reform  movement,  of  which 
he  was  one  of  the  figureheads,  was  being  organized  by 
far  more  skillful  and  expert  hands  than  his — and  for 
purposes  of  which  he  had  no  notion.  So,  he  really  had 
all  the  time  in  the  world  to  look  after  Ellen  Clearwater 
and  Josie  Arthur,  and  to  pose  as  a  serious  man  bent 
upon  doing  his  duty  as  an  upper  class  person  of  leisure. 
All  that  the  reform  machine  wished  of  him  was  to 
talk  and  to  pose — and  to  ride  on  the  show  seat  of  the 
pretty,  new  political  wagon. 

The  new  movement  had  not  yet  been  "sprung"  upon 
the  public.  It  was  still  an  open  secret  among  the  young 
men  of  the  "better  element"  in  the  Lincoln,  the  Jeffer 
son  and  the  University  clubs.  Money  was  being  sub 
scribed  liberally  by  persons  of  good  family  who  hoped 
for  political  preferment  and  could  not  get  it  from  the 
old  parties,  and  by  corporations  tired  of  being  "black 
mailed"  by  Kelly  and  House,  and  desirous  of  getting 
into  office  men  who  would  give  them  what  they  wanted 
because  it  was  for  the  public  good  that  they  should 
not  be  hampered  in  any  way.  With  plenty  of  money 
an  excellent  machine  could  be  built  and  set  to  running. 

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Also,  there  was  talk  of  a  fusion  with  the  Democratic 
machine,  House  to  order  the  wholesale  indorsement  of 
the  reform  ticket  in  exchange  for  a  few  minor  places. 

When  the  excitement  among  the  young  gentlemen 
over  the  approaching  moral  regeneration  of  Remsen 
City  politics  was  at  the  boiling  point  Victor  Dorn  sent 
for  David  Hull — asked  him  to  come  to  the  Baker 
Avenue  cafe,  which  was  the  social  headquarters  of 
Dorn's  Workingmen's  League.  As  Hull  was  rather 
counting  on  Dorn's  support,  or  at  least  neutrality,  in 
the  approaching  contest,  he  accepted  promptly.  As  he 
entered  the  cafe  he  saw  Dorn  seated  at  a  table  in  a  far 
corner  listening  calmly  to  a  man  who  was  obviously  an 
grily  in  earnest.  At  second  glance  he  recognized  Tony 
Rivers,  one  of  Dick  Kelly's  shrewdest  lieutenants  and  a 
labor  leader  of  great  influence  in  the  unions  of  factory 
workers.  Among  those  in  "the  know"  it  was  under 
stood  that  Rivers  could  come  nearer  to  delivering  the 
labor  vote  than  any  man  in  Remsen  City.  He  knew 
whom  to  corrupt  with  bribes  and  whom  to  entrap  by 
subtle  appeals  to  ignorant  prejudice.  As  a  large  part 
of  his  herd  was  intensely  Catholic,  Rivers  was  a  devout 
Catholic.  To  quote  his  own  phrase,  used  in  a  company 
on  whose  discretion  he  could  count,  "Many's  the  pair 
of  pants  I've  worn  out  doing  the  stations  of  the  Cross." 
In  fact,  Rivers  had  been  brought  up  a  Presbyterian, 
and  under  the  name  of  Blake — his  correct  name — had 
"done  a  stretch"  in  Joliet  for  picking  pockets. 

Dorn  caught  sight  of  Davy  Hull,  hanging  uncer- 
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tainly  in  the  offing.  He  rose  at  once,  said  a  few  words 
in  a  quiet,  emphatic  way  to  Rivers — words  of  conclu 
sion  and  dismissal — and  advanced  to  meet  Hull. 

"I  don't  want  to  interrupt.  I  can  wait,"  said  Hull, 
who  saw  Rivers'  angry  scowl  at  him.  He  did  not  wish 
to  offend  the  great  labor  leader. 

"That  fellow  pushed  himself  on  me,"  said  Dorn.  "I've 
nothing  to  say  to  him." 

"Tony  Rivers — wasn't  it?"  said  Davy  as  they  seated 
themselves  at  another  table. 

"I'm  going  to  expose  him  in  next  week's  New  Day" 
replied  Victor.  "When  I  sent  him  a  copy  of  the  article 
for  his  corrections,  if  he  could  make  any,  he  came 
threatening." 

"I've  heard  he's  a  dangerous  man,"  said  Davy. 

"He'll  not  be  so  dangerous  after  Saturday,"  replied 
Victor.  "One  by  one  I'm  putting  the  labor  agents  of 
your  friends  out  of  business.  The  best  ones — the  chaps 
like  Rivers — are  hard  to  catch.  And  if  I  should  attack 
one  of  them  before  I  had  him  dead  to  rights,  I'd  only 
strengthen  him." 

"You  think  you  can  destroy  Rivers'  influence?"  said 
Davy  incredulously. 

"If  I  were  not  sure  of  it  I'd  not  publish  a  line,"  said 
Victor.  "But  to  get  to  the  subject  I  wish  to  talk  to  you 
about.  You  are  to  be  the  reform  candidate  for  Mayor 
in  the  fall?" 

Davy  looked  important  and  self-conscious.     "There 

has  been  some  talk  of "  he  began. 

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"I've  sent  for  you  to  ask  you  to  withdraw  from  the 
movement,  Hull,"  interrupted  Victor. 

Hull  smiled.  "And  I've  come  to  ask  you  to  support 
it,"  said  Hull.  "We'll  win,  anyhow.  But  I'd  like  to 
see  all  the  forces  against  corruption  united  in  this  cam 
paign.  I  am  even  urging  my  people  to  put  one  or  two 
of  your  men  on  the  ticket." 

"None  of  us  would  accept,"  said  Victor.  "That  isn't 
our  kind  of  politics.  We'll  take  nothing  until  we  get 
everything.  .  .  .  What  do  you  know  about  this 
movement  you're  lending  your  name  to?" 

"I  organized  it,"  said  Hull  proudly. 

"Pardon  me — Dick  Kelly  organized  it,"  replied  Vic 
tor.  "They're  simply  using  you,  Davy,  to  play  their 
rotten  game.  Kelly  knew  he  was  certain  to  be  beaten 
this  fall.  He  doesn't  care  especially  for  that, 
because  House  and  his  gang  are  just  as  much 
Kelly  as  Kelly  himself.  But  he's  alarmed  about  the 
judgeship." 

Davy  Hull  reddened,  though  he  tried  hard  to  look 
indifferent. 

"He's  given  up  hope  of  pulling  through  the  scoun 
drel  who's  on  the  bench  now.  He  knows  that  our  man 
would  be  elected,  though  his  tool  had  the  sup 
port  of  the  Republicans,  the  Democrats  and  the  new 
reform  crowd." 

Dorn  had  been  watching  Hull's  embarrassed  face 
keenly.  He  now  said:  "You  understand,  I  see,  why 
Judge  Freilig  changed  his  mind  and  decided  that  he 

154, 


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must  stop  devoting  himself  to  the  public  and  think 
of  the  welfare  of  his  family  and  resume  the  practice  of 
the  law?" 

"Judge  Freilig  is  an  honorable  gentleman,"  said  Davy 
with  much  dignity.  "I'm  sorry,  Dorn,  that  you  listen 
to  the  lies  of  demagogues." 

"If  Freilig  had  persisted  in  running,"  said  Victor,  "I 
should  have  published  the  list  of  stocks  and  bonds  of 
corporations  benefiting  by  his  decisions  that  his  brother 
and  his  father  have  come  into  possession  of  during  his 
two  terms  on  the  bench.  Many  of  our  judges  are 
simply  mentally  crooked.  But  Freilig  is  a  bribe  taker. 
He  probably  believes  his  decisions  are  just.  All  you 
fellows  believe  that  upper-class  rule  is  really  best  for 
the  people " 

"And  so  it  is,"  said  Davy.  "And  you,  an  educated 
man,  know  it." 

"I'll  not  argue  that  now,"  said  Victor.  "As  I  was 
saying,  while  Freilig  decides  for  what  he  honestly 
thinks  is  right,  he  also  feels  he  is  entitled  to  a  share 
of  the  substantial  benefits.  Most  of  the  judges,  after 
serving  the  upper  class  faithfully  for  years,  retire  to 
an  old  age  of  comparative  poverty.  Freilig  thinks  that 
is  foolish." 

"I  suppose  you  agree  with  him,"  said  Hull  sarcas 
tically. 

"I  sympathize  with  him,"  said  Victor.  "He  retires 
with  reputation  unstained  and  with  plenty  of  money. 
If  I  should  publish  the  truth  about  him,  would  he  lose 

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a  single  one  of  his  friends?     You  know  he  wouldn't. 
That  isn't  the  waj  the  world  is  run  at  present." 

"No  doubt  it  would  be  run  much  better  if  your  crowd 
were  in  charge,"  sneered  Hull. 

"On  the  contrary,  much  worse,"  replied  Victor  unruf 
fled.  "But  we're  educating  ourselves  so  that,  when  our 
time  comes,  we'll  not  do  so  badly." 

"You'll  have  plenty  of  time  for  education,"  said 
Davy. 

"Plenty,"  said  Victor.  "But  why  are  you  angry? 
Because  you  realize  now  that  your  reform  candidate 
for  judge  is  of  Dick  Kelly's  selecting?" 

"Kelly  didn't  propose  Hugo  Galland,"  cried  Davy 
hotly.  "I  proposed  him  myself." 

"Was  his  the  first  name  you  proposed?" 

Something  in  Dorn's  tone  made  Davy  feel  that  it 
would  be  unwise  to  yield  to  the  impulse  to  tell  a  lie — 
for  the  highly  moral  purpose  of  silencing  this  agitator 
and  demagogue. 

"You  will  remember,"  pursued  Victor,  "that  Galland 
was  the  sixth  or  seventh  name  you  proposed — and  that 
Joe  House  rejected  the  others.  He  did  it,  after  consult 
ing  with  Kelly.  You  recall — don't  you? — that  every 
time  you  brought  him  a  name  he  took  time  to  con 
sider?" 

"How  do  you  know  so  much  about  all  this?"  cried 
Davy,  his  tone  suggesting  that  Victor  was  wholly  mis 
taken,  but  his  manner  betraying  that  he  knew  Victor 
was  right. 

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"Oh,  politicians  are  human,"  replied  Dora.  "And 
the  human  race  is  loose-mouthed.  I  saw  years  ago  that 
if  I  was  to  build  my  party  I  must  have  full  and  accurate 
information  as  to  all  that  was  going  on.  I  made  my 
plans  accordingly." 

"Galland  is  an  honest  man — rich — above  suspicion 
— above  corruption — an  ideal  candidate,"  said  Davy. 

"He  is  a  corporation  owner,  a  corporation  lawyer — 
and  a  fool,"  said  Victor.  "As  I've  told  you,  all  Dick 
Kelly's  interest  in  this  fall's  local  election  is  that  judge- 
ship." 

"Galland  is  my  man.  I  want  to  see  him  elected.  If 
Kelly's  for  Galland,  so  much  the  better.  Then  we're 
sure  of  electing  him — of  getting  the  right  sort  of  a  man 
on  the  bench." 

"I'm  not  here  to  argue  with  you  about  politics, 
Davy,"  said  Victor.  "I  brought  you  here  because  I 
like  you— believe  in  your  honesty — and  don't  want  to 
see  you  humiliated.  I'm  giving  you  a  chance  to  save 
yourself." 

"From  what?"  inquired  Hull,  not  so  valiant  as  he  pre 
tended  to  be. 

"From  the  ridicule  and  disgrace  that  will  cover  this 
reform  movement,  if  you  persist  in  it." 

Hull  burst  out  laughing.  "Of  all  the  damned  impu 
dence  P'  he  exclaimed.  "Dorn,  I  think  you've  gone 
crazy." 

"You  can't  irritate  me,  Hull.  I've  been  giving  you 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  I  think  you  are  falling  into 
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|  the  commonest  kind  of  error — doing  evil  and  winking  at 
evil  in  order  that  a  good  end  may  be  gained.  Now, 
listen.  What  are  the  things  you  reformers  are  count 
ing  on  to  get  you  votes  this  fall" 

Davy  maintained  a  haughty  silence. 

"The  traction  scandals,  the  gas  scandals  and  the  pav 
ing  scandals — isn't  that  it?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Davy. 

"Then — why  have  the  gas  crowd,  the  traction  crowd 
and  the  paving  crowd  each  contributed  twenty-five  thou 
sand  dollars  to  your  campaign  fund?" 

Hull  stared  at  Victor  Dorn  in  amazement.  "Who 
told  you  that  lie?"  he  blustered. 

Dorn  looked  at  him  sadly.  "Then  you  knew?  I 
hoped  you  didn't,  Hull.  But — now  that  you're  facing 
the  situation  squarely,  don't  you  see  that  you're  being 
made  a  fool  of?  Would  those  people  put  up  for  your 
election  if  they  weren't  sure  you  and  your  crowd  were 
their  crowd?" 

"They'll  find  out !"  cried  Hull. 

"You'll  find  out,  you  mean,"  replied  Victor.  "I  see 
your  whole  programme,  Davy.  They'll  put  you  in,  and 
they'll  say,  'Let  us  alone  and  we'll  make  you  governor 
of  the  State.  Annoy  us,  and  you'll  have  no  political 
future.'  And  you'll  say  to  yourself,  'The  wise  thing 
for  me  to  do  is  to  wait  until  I'm  governor  before  I  be 
gin  to  serve  the  people.  Then  I  can  really  do  some 
thing.'  And  so,  you'll  be  their  mayor — and  afterward 
their  governor — because  they'll  hold  out  another  induce- 

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ment.  Anyhow,  by  that  time  you'll  be  so  completely 
theirs  that  you'll  have  no  hope  of  a  career  except 
through  them." 

After  reading  how  some  famous  oration  wrought 
upon  its  audience  we  turn  to  it  and  wonder  that  such 
tempests  of  emotion  could  have  been  produced  by  such 
simple,  perhaps  almost  commonplace  words.  The  key 
to  the  mystery  is  usually  a  magic  quality  in  the  tone  of 
the  orator,  evoking  before  its  hypnotized  hearers  a 
series  of  vivid  pictures,  just  as  the  notes  of  a  violin, 
with  no  aid  from  words  or  even  from  musical  form  seem 
to  materialize  into  visions.  This  uncommon  yet  by  no 
means  rare  power  was  in  Victor  Dorn's  voice,  and  ex 
plained  his  extraordinary  influence  over  people  of  all 
kinds  and  classes;  it  wove  a  spell  that  enmeshed  even 
those  who  disliked  him  for  his  detestable  views.  Davy 
Hull,  listening  to  Victor's  simple  recital  of  his  prospect 
ive  career,  was  so  wrought  upon  that  he  sat  staring 
before  him  in  a  kind  of  terror. 

"Davy,"  said  Victor  gently,  "you're  at  the  parting 
of  the  ways.  The  time  for  honest  halfway  reformers — 
for  political  amateurs  has  passed.  'Under  which  king, 
Bezonian?  Speak  or  die!' — that's  the  situation  to 
day." 

And  Hull  knew  that  it  was  so.  "What  do  you  pro 
pose,  Dorn?"  he  said.  "I  want  to  do  what's  right — 
what's  best  for  the  people." 

"Don't  worry  about  the  people,  Hull,"  said  Victor. 
"Upper  classes  come  and  pass,  but  the  people  remain — 

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bigger  and  stronger  and  more  aggressive  witk  every 
century.  And  they  dictate  language  and  art,  and  poli 
tics  and  religion — what  we  shall  all  eat  and  wear  and 
think  and  do.  Only  what  they  approve,  only  that  yoke 
even  which  they  themselves  accept,  has  any  chance  of 
enduring.  Don't  worry  about  the  people,  Davy. 
Worry  about  yourself." 

"I  admit,"  said  Hull,  "that  I  don't  like  a  lot  of 
things  about  the — the  forces  I  find  I've  got  to  use  in 
order  to  carry  through  my  plans.  I  admit  that  even 
the  sincere  young  fellows  I've  grouped  together  to  head 
this  movement  are  narrow — supercilious — self-satisfied 
— that  they  irritate  me  and  are  not  trustworthy.  But  I 
feel  that,  if  I  once  get  the  office,  I'll  be  strong  enough 
to  put  my  plans  through."  Nervously,  "I'm  giving  you 
my  full  confidence — as  I've  given  it  to  no  one  else." 

"You've  told  me  nothing  I  didn't  know  already,"  said 
Victor. 

"I've  got  to  choose  between  this  reform  party  and 
your  party,"  continued  Hull.  "That  is,  I've  got  no 
choice.  For,  candidly,  I've  no  confidence  in  the  work 
ing  class.  It's  too  ignorant  to  do  the  ruling.  It's 
too  credulous  to  build  on — for  its  credulity  makes  it 
fickle.  And  I  believe  in  the  better  class,  too.  It  may 
be  sordid  and  greedy  and  tyrannical,  but  by  appealing 
to  its  good  instincts — and  to  its  fear  of  the  money 
kings  and  the  monopolists,  something  good  can  be  got 
through  it." 

"If  you  want  to  get  office,"  said  Dorn,  "you're 
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right.  But  if  you  want  to  be  somebody,  if  you  want 
to  develop  yourself,  to  have  the  joy  of  being  utterly 
unafraid  in  speech  and  in  action — why,  come  with 
'"us." 

After  a  pause  Hull  said,  "I'd  like  to  do  it.  I'd  like 
to  help  you." 

Victor  laid  his  hand  on  Davy's  arm.  "Get  it 
straight,  Davy,"  he  said.  "You  can't  help  us.  We 
don't  need  you.  It's  you  that  needs  us.  We'll  make 
an  honest  man  of  you — instead  of  a  trimming  politician, 
trying  to  say  or  to  do  something  more  or  less  honest 
once  in  a  while  and  winking  at  or  abetting  crookedness 
most  of  the  time." 

"I've  done  nothing,  and  I'll  do  nothing,  to  be 
ashamed  of,"  protested  Hull. 

"You  are  not  ashamed  of  the  way  your  movement 
is  financed?" 

Davy  moved  uncomfortably.  "The  money's  ours 
now,"  said  he.  "They  gave  it  unconditionally." 

But  he  could  not  meet  Victor's  eyes.  Victor  said: 
"They  paid  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  for  a  judge- 
ship  and  for  a  blanket  mortgage  on  your  party.  And 
if  you  should  win,  you'd  find  you  could  do  little  showy 
things  that  were  of  no  value,  but  nothing  that  would 
seriously  disturb  a  single  leech  sucking  the  blood  of 
this  community." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  Davy.  He  roused 
himself  into  anger— his  only  remaining  refuge.  "Your 
prejudices  blind  you  to  all  the  means — the  practical 

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means — of  doing  good,  Dorn.  I've  listened  patiently 
to  you  because  I  respect  your  sincerity.  But  I'm  not 
going  to  waste  my  life  in  mere  criticism.  I'm  going  to 
do  something." 

An  expression  of  profound  sadness  came  into  Vic 
tor's  face.  "Don't  decide  now,"  he  said.  "Think  it 
over.  Remember  what  I've  told  you  about  what  we'll 
be  compelled  to  do  if  you  launch  this  party." 

Hull  was  tempted  to  burst  out  violently.  Was  not 
this  swollen-headed  upstart  trying  to  intimidate  him  by 
threats?  But  his  strong  instinct  for  prudence  per 
suaded  him  to  conceal  his  resentment.  "Why  the  devil 
should  you  attack  us?"  he  demanded.  "Surely  we're 
nearer  your  kind  of  thing  than  the  old  parties — and 
we,  too,  are  against  them — their  rotten  machines." 

"We  purpose  to  keep  the  issue  clear  in  this  town," 
replied  Victor.  "So,  we  can't  allow  a  party  to  grow 
up  that  pretends  to  be  just  as  good  as  ours  but  is 
really  a  cover  behind  which  the  old  parties  we've  been 
battering  to  pieces  can  reorganize." 

"That  is,  you'll  tolerate  in  this  market  no  brand  of 
honest  politics  but  your  own?" 

"If  you  wish  to  put  it  that  way,"  replied  Victor 
•coolly. 

"I  suppose  you'd  rather  see  Kelly  or  House  win?" 

"We'll  see  that  House  does  win,"  replied  Victor. 
"When  we  have  shot  your  movement  full  of  holes  and 
sunk  it,  House  will  put  up  a  straight  Democratic  ticket, 
and  it  will  win." 

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"And  House  means  Kelly — and  Kelly  means  cor 
ruption  rampant." 

"And  corruption  rampant  means  further  and  much 
needed  education  in  "the  school  of  hard  experience  for 
the  voters,"  said  Dorn.  "And  the  more  education,  the 
larger  our  party  and  the  quicker  its  triumph." 

Hull  laughed  angrily.  "Talk  about  low  self-seek 
ing  !  Talk  about  rotten  practical  politics !" 

But  Dorn  held  his  good  humor  of  the  man  who  has 
the  power  and  knows  it.  "Think  it  over,  Davy,"  coun 
seled  he.  "You'll  see  you've  got  to  come  with  us  or  join 
Kelly.  For  your  own  sake  I'd  like  to  see  you  with  us. 
For  the  party's  sake  you'd  better  be  with  Kelly,  for 
you're  not  really  a  workingman,  and  our  fellows 
would  be  uneasy  about  you  for  a  long  time.  You  see, 
we've  had  experience  of  rich  young  men  whose  hearts 
beat  for  the  wrongs  of  the  working  class — and  that 
experience  has  not  been  fortunate." 

"Before  you  definitely  decide  to  break  with  the  decent 
element  of  the  better  class,  Victor,  I  want  you  to  think 
it  over,"  said  Davy.  "We — I,  myself — have  befriended 
you  more  than  once.  But  for  a  few  of  us  who  still 
have  hope  that  demagoguery  will  die  of  itself,  your 
paper  would  have  been  suppressed  long  ago." 

Victor  laughed.  "I  wish  they  would  suppress  it," 
said  he.  "The  result  would  give  the  'better  element' 
in  this  town  a  very  bad  quarter  of  an  hour,  at  least." 
He  rose.  "We've  both  said  all  we've  got  to  say  to  each 
other.  I  see  I've  done  no  good.  I  feared  it  would  be 

163 


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so."  He  was  looking  into  Hull's  eyes — into  his  very 
soul.  "When  we  meet  again,  you  will  probably  be  my 
open  and  bitter  enemy.  It's  a  pity.  It  makes  me 
sad.  Good-by,  and — do  think  it  over,  Davy." 

Dorn  moved  rapidly  away.  Hull  looked  after  him 
in  surprise.  At  first  blush  he  was  astonished  that  Dorn 
should  care  so  much  about  him  as  this  curious  inter 
view  and  his  emotion  at  its  end  indicated.  But  on  re 
flecting  his  astonishment  disappeared,  and  he  took  the 
view  that  Dorn  was  simply  impressed  by  his  personality 
and  by  his  ability — was  perhaps  craftily  trying  to  dis 
arm  him  and  to  destroy  his  political  movement  which 
was  threatening  to  destroy  the  Workingmen's  League. 
"A  very  shrewd  chap  is  Dorn,"  thought  Davy — why  do 
we  always  generously  concede  at  least  acumen  to  those 
we  suspect  of  having  a  good  opinion  of  us? — "A  very 
shrewd  chap.  It's  unfortunate  he's  cursed  with  that 
miserable  envy  of  those  better  born  and  better  off  than 
he  is." 

Davy  spent  the  early  evening  at  the  University  Club, 
where  he  was  an  important  figure.  Later  on  he  went 
to  a  dance  at  Mrs.  Venable's — and  there  he  was  indeed 
a  lion,  as  an  unmarried  man  with  money  cannot  but 
be  in  a  company  of  ladies — for  money  to  a  lady  is. 
what  soil  and  sun  and  rain  are  to  a  flower — is  that 
without  which  she  must  cease  to  exist.  But  still  later, 
when  he  was  alone  in  bed — perhaps  with  the  supper  he 
ate  at  Mrs.  Venable's  not  sitting  as  lightly  as  comfort 
required — the  things  Victor  Dorn  had  said  came  trail- 

164 


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ing  drearily  through  his  mind.  What  kind  of  an  article 
would  Dorn  print?  Those  facts  about  the  campaign 
fund  certainly  would  look  badly  in  cold  type — especially 
if  Dorn  had  the  proofs.  And  Hugo  Galland —  Be 
yond  question  the  mere  list  of  the  corporations  in  which 
Hugo  was  director  or  large  stockholder  would  make 
him  absurd  as  a  judge,  sitting  in  that  district.  And 
Hugo  the  son-in-law  of  the  most  offensive  capitalist  in 
that  section  of  the  State !  And  the  deal  with  House, 
endorsed  by  Kelly — how  nasty  that  would  look,  if  Vic 
tor  had  the  proofs.  //  Victor  had  the  proofs.  But 
had  he? 

"I  must  have  a  talk  with  Kelly,"  said  Davy,  aloud. 

The  words  startled  him — not  his  voice  suddenly 
sounding  in  the  profound  stillness  of  his  bedroom,  but 
the  words  themselves.  It  was  his  first  admission  to  him 
self  of  the  vicious  truth  he  had  known  from  the  outset 
and  had  been  pretending  to  himself  that  he  did  not 
know — the  truth  that  his  reform  movement  was  a 
fraud  contrived  by  Dick  Kelly  to  further  the  interests 
of  the  company  of  financiers  and  the  gang  of  politico- 
criminal  thugs  who  owned  the  party  machinery.  It  is 
a  nice  question  whether  a  man  is  ever  allowed  to  go  in 
honest  self-deception  decisively  far  along  a  wrong  road. 
However  this  may  be,  certain  it  is  that  David  Hull, 
reformer,  was  not  so  allowed.  And  he  was  glad  of  the 
darkness  that  hid  him  at  least  physically  from  himself 
as  he  strove  to  convince  himself  that,  if  he  was  doing 
wrong,  it  was  from  the  highest  motives  and  for  the 

165 


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noblest  purposes  and  would  result  in  the  public  good — 
and  not  merely  in  fame  and  office  for  David  Hull. 

The  struggle  ended  as  struggles  usually  end  in  the 
famous  arena  of  moral  sham  battles  called  conscience; 
and  toward  the  middle  of  the  following  morning  Davy, 
at  peace  with  himself  and  prepared  to  make  any  sacri 
fice  of  personal  squeamishness  or  moral  idealism  for  the 
sake  of  the  public  good,  sought  out  Dick  Kelly. 

Kelly's  original  headquarters  had,  of  course,  been  the 
doggery  in  and  through  which  he  had  established  him 
self  as  a  political  power.  As  his  power  grew  and  his 
relations  with  more  respectable  elements  of  society  ex 
tended  he  shifted  to  a  saloon  and  beer  garden  kept  by 
a  reputable  German  and  frequented  by  all  kinds  of 
people — a  place  where  his  friends  of  the  avowedly 
criminal  class  and  his  newer  friends  of  the  class  that 
does  nothing  legally  criminal,  except  in  emergencies, 
would  feel  equally  at  ease.  He  retained  ownership  of 
the  doggery,  but  took  his  name  down  and  put  up  that 
of  his  barkeeper.  When  he  won  his  first  big  political 
fight  and  took  charge  of  the  public  affairs  of  Remsen 
City  and  made  an  arrangement  with  Joe  House  where- 
under  Remsen  City,  whenever  it  wearied  or  sickened  of 
Kelly,  could  take  instead  Kelly  disguised  as  Joe  House 
— when  he  thus  became  a  full  blown  boss  he  established 
a  secondary  headquarters  in  addition  to  that  at  Herr 
mann's  Garden.  Every  morning  at  ten  o'clock  he  took 
his  stand  in  the  main  corridor  of  the  City  Hall,  really 
a  thoroughfare  and  short  cut  for  the  busiest  part  of 

166 


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town.  With  a  cigar  in  his  mouth  he  stood  there  for 
an  hour  or  so,  holding  court,  making  appointments,  at 
tending  to  all  sorts  of  political  business. 

Presently  his  importance  and  his  ideas  of  etiquette 
expanded  to  such  an  extent  that  he  had  to  establish 
the  Elaine  Club.  Joe  House's  Tilden  Club  was  estab 
lished  two  years  later,  in  imitation  of  Kelly.  If  you  had 
very  private  and  important  business  with  Kelly — 
business  of  the  kind  of  which  the  public  must  get  no 
inkling,  you  made — preferably  by  telephone — an  ap 
pointment  to  meet  him  in  his  real  estate  offices  in  the 
Hastings  Building — a  suite  with  entrances  and  exits 
into  three  separated  corridors.  If  you  wished  to  s«e 
him  about  ordinary  matters  and  were  a  person  who 
could  "confer"  with  Kelly  without  its  causing  talk 
you  met  him  at  the  Elaine  Club.  If  you  wished  to  cul 
tivate  him,  to  pay  court  to  him,  you  saw  him  at  Herr 
mann's — or  in  the  general  rooms  of  the  club.  If  you 
were  a  busy  man  and  had  time  only  to  exchange  greet 
ings  with  him — to  "keep  in  touch" — you  passed  through 
the  City  Hall  now  and  then  at  his  hour.  Some  bosses 
soon  grow  too  proud  for  the  vulgar  democracy  of  such 
a  public  stand ;  but  Kelly,  partly  through  shrewdness, 
partly  through  inclination,  clung  to  the  City  Hall 
stand  and  encouraged  the  humblest  citizens  to  seek 
him  there  and  tell  him  the  news  or  ask  his  aid  or  his 
advice. 

It  was  at  the  City  Hall  that  Davy  Hull  sought  him, 
and  found  him.  Twice  he  walked  briskly  to  the  boss; 

167 


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the  third  time  he  went  by  slowly.  Kelly,  who  saw 
everything,  had  known  from  the  first  glance  at  Hull's 
grave,  anxious  face,  that  the  young  leader  of  the  "holy 
boys"  was  there  to  see  him.  But  he  ignored  Davy 
until  Davy  addressed  him  directly. 

"Howdy,  Mr.  Hull !"  said  he,  observing  the  young 
man  with  eyes  that  twinkled  cynically.  "What's  the 
good  word?" 

"I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you,"  Davy  blurted 
out.  "Where  could  I  see  you?" 

"Here  I  am,"  said  Kelly.     "Talk  away." 

"Couldn't  I  see  you  at  some — some  place  where  we'd 
not  be  interrupted?  I  saw  Victor  Dorn  yesterday,  and 
he  said  some  things  that  I  think  you  ought  to  know 
about." 

"I  do  know  about  'em,"  replied  Kelly. 

"Are  you  sure?     I  mean  his  threats  to — to " 

As  Davy  paused  in  an  embarrassed  search  for  a 
word  that  would  not  hurt  his  own  but  recently  soothed 
conscience,  Kelly  laughed.  "To  expose  you  holy 
boys?"  inquired  he.  "To  upset  the  nice  moral  cam 
paign  you  and  Joe  House  have  laid  out?  Yes,  I  know 
all  about  Mr.  Victor  Dorn.  But — Joe  House  is  the 
man  you  want  to  see.  You  boys  are  trying  to  do  me 
up — trying  to  break  up  the  party.  You  can't  expect 
me  to  help  you.  I've  got  great  respect  for  you  per 
sonally,  Mr.  Hull.  Your  father — he  was  a  fine  old 
Republican  wheel-horse.  He  stood  by  the  party 
through  thick  and  thin — and  the  party  stood  by  him. 

108 


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So,  I  respect  his  son — personally.  But  politically — 
that's  another  matter.  Politically  I  respect  straight 
organization  men  of  either  party,  but  I've  got  no  use 
for  amateurs  and  reformers.  So — go  to  Joe  House." 
All  this  in  perfect  good  humor,  and  in  a  tone  of  banter 
that  might  have  ruffled  a  man  with  a  keener  sense  of 
humor  than  Davy's. 

Davy  was  red  to  his  eyes,  not  because  Kelly  was 
laughing  at  him,  but  because  he  stood  convicted  of 
such  a  stupid  political  blunder  as  coming  direct  to  Kelly 
when  obviously  he  should  have  gone  to  Kelly's  secret 
partner.  "Dorn  means  to  attack  us  all — Republicans, 
Democrats  and  Citizens'  Alliance,"  stammered  Davy, 
trying  to  justify  himself. 

Kelly  shifted  his  cigar  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"Don't  worry  about  his  attacks  on  me — on  us,"  said  he. 
"We're  used  to  being  attacked.  We  haven't  got  no 
reputation  for  superior  virtue  to  lose." 

"But  he  says  he  can  prove  that  our  whole  campaign 
is  simply  a  deal  between  you  and  House  and  me  to 
fool  the  people  and  elect  a  bad  judge." 

"So  I've  heard,"  said  Kelly.  "But  what  of  it?  You 
know  it  ain't  so." 

"No,  I  don't,  Mr.  Kelly,"  replied  Hull,  desperately. 
"On  the  contrary,  I  think  it  is  so.  And  I  may  add  I 
think  we  are  justified  in  making  such  a  deal,  when 
that's  the  only  way  to  save  the  community  from  Victor 
Dorn  and  his  crowd  of — of  anarchists." 

Kelly  looked  at  him  silently  with  amused  eyes. 


THE    CONFLICT 


"House  can't  do  anything,"  pursued  Davy.  "Maybe 
you  can.  So  I  came  straight  to  you." 

"I'm  glad  you're  getting  a  little  political  sense,  my 
boy,"  said  Kelly.  "Perhaps  you're  beginning  to  see 
that  a  politician  has  got  to  be  practical — that  it's  the 
organizations  that  keeps  this  city  from  being  the  prey 
to  Victor  Dorns." 

"I  see  that,"  said  Davy.  "I'm  willing  to  admit  that 
I've  misjudged  you,  Mr.  Kelly — that  the  better  classes 
owe  you  a  heavy  debt — and  that  you  are  one  of  the 
men  we've  got  to  rely  on  chiefly  to  stem  the  tide  of 
anarchy  that's  rising — the  attack  on  the  propertied 
classes — the  intelligent  classes." 

"I  see  your  eyes  are  being  opened,  my  boy,"  said 
Kelly  in  a  kindly  tone  that  showed  how  deeply  he  ap 
preciated  this  unexpected  recognition  of  his  own  notion 
of  his  mission.  "You  young  silk  stocking  fellows  up  at 
the  University  Club,  aiid  the  Lincoln  and  the  Jefferson, 
have  been  indulging  in  a  lot  of  loose  talk  against  the 
fellows  that  do  the  hard  work  in  politics — the  fellows 
that  helped  your  fathers  to  make  fortunes  and  that  are 
helping  you  boys  to  keep  'em.  If  I  didn't  have  a  pretty 
level  head  on  me,  I'd  take  my  hands  off  and  give  Dorn 
and  his  gang  a  chance  at  you.  I  tell  you,  when  you 
fool  with  that  reform  nonsense,  you  play  with  fire  in 
a  powder  mill." 

"But  I — I  had  an  idea  that  you  wanted  me  to  go 
ahead,"  said  Davy. 

"Not  the  way  you  started  last  spring,"  replied  Kelly. 
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"Not  the  way  you'd  'a  gone  if  I  hadn't  taken  hold. 
I've  been  saving  you  in  spite  of  yourselves.  Thanks 
to  me,  your  party's  on  a  sound,  conservative  basis  and 
won't  do  any  harm  and  may  do  some  good  in  teaching 
a  lesson  to  those  of  our  boys  that've  been  going  a  little 
too  far.  It  ain't  good  for  an  organization  to  win 
always." 

"Victor  Dorn  seemed  to  be  sure — absolutely  sure," 
said  Hull.  "And  he's  pretty  shrewd  at  politics — 
isn't  he?" 

"Don't  worry  about  him,  I  tell  you,"  replied  Kelly. 

The  sudden  hardening  of  his  voice  and  of  his  never 
notably  soft  face  was  tribute  stronger  than  any  words 
to  Dorn's  ability  as  a  politician,  to  his  power  as  an 
antagonist.  Davy  felt  a  sinister  intent — and  he  knew 
that  Dick  Kelly  had  risen  because  he  would  stop  at 
nothing.  He  was  as  eager  to  get  away  from  the  boss 
as  the  boss  was  to  be  rid  of  him.  The  intrusion  of  a 
henchman,  to  whom  Kelly  had  no  doubt  signaled,  gave 
him  the  excuse.  As  soon  as  he  had  turned  from  the 
City  Hall  into  Morton  Street  he  slackened  to  as  slow 
a  walk  as  his  length  of  leg  would  permit.  Moving  along, 
absorbed  in  uncomfortable  thoughts,  he  startled  vio 
lently  when  he  heard  Selma  Gordon's  voice: 

"How  d'you  do,  Mr.  Hull?  I  was  hoping  I'd  see  you 
to-day." 

She  was  standing  before  him — the  same  fascinating 
embodiment  of  life  and  health  and  untamed  energy; 
the  direct,  honest  glance. 

171 


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"I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  she  went  on,  "and  I  can't, 
walking  beside  you.  You're  far  too  tall.  Come  into 
the  park  and  we'll  sit  on  that  bench  under  the  big 
maple." 

He  had  mechanically  lifted  his  hat,  but  he  had  not 
spoken.  He  did  not  find  words  until  they  were  seated 
side  by  side,  and  then  all  he  could  say  was : 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  again — very  glad,  indeed." 

In  fact,  he  was  the  reverse  of  glad,  for  he  was  afraid 
of  her,  afraid  of  himself  when  under  the  spell  of  her 
presence.  He  who  prided  himself  on  his  self-control,  he 
could  not  account  for  the  effect  this  girl  had  upon 
him.  As  he  sat  there  beside  her  the  impulse  Jane  Hast 
ings  had  so  adroitly  checked  came  surging  back.  He 
had  believed,  had  hoped  it  was  gone  for  good  and  all. 
He  found  that  in  its  mysterious  hiding  place  it  had 
been  gaining  strength.  Quite  clearly  he  saw  how  absurd 
was  the  idea  of  making  this  girl  his  wife — he  tall  and 
she  not  much  above  the  bend  of  his  elbow;  he  conven 
tional,  and  she  the  incarnation  of  passionate  revolt 
against  the  restraints  of  class  and  form  and  custom 
which  he  not  only  conformed  to  but  religiously  believed 
in.  And  she  set  stirring  in  him  all  kinds  of  vague,  wild 
longings  to  run  amuck  socially  and  politically — long 
ings  that,  if  indulged,  would  ruin  him  for  any  career 
worthy  of  the  name. 

He  stood  up.  "I  must  go — I  really  must,"  he  said, 
confusedly. 

She  laid  her  small,  strong  hand  on  his  arm — a  natural, 
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friendly  gesture  with  her,  and  giving  no  suggestion  of 
familiarity.  Even  as  she  was  saying,  "Please — only  a 
moment,"  he  dropped  back  to  the  seat. 

"Well — what  is  it?"  he  said  abruptly,  his  gaze  reso 
lutely  away  from  her  face. 

"Victor  was  telling  me  this  morning  about  his  talk 
with  you,"  she  said  in  her  rapid,  energetic  way.  "He 
was  depressed  because  he  had  failed.  But  I  felt  sure — 
I  feel  sure — that  he  hasn't.  In  our  talk  the  other  day, 
Mr.  Hull,  I  got  a  clear  idea  of  your  character.  A 
woman  understands  better.  And  I  know  that,  after 
Victor  told  you  the  plain  truth  about  the  situation,  you 
couldn't  go  on." 

David  looked  round  rather  wildly,  swallowed  hard 
several  times,  said  hoarsely:  "I  won't,  if  you'll  marry 


But  for  a  slight  change  of  expression  or  of  color 
Davy  would  have  thought  she  had  not  heard — or  per 
haps  that  he  had  imagined  he  was  uttering  the  words 
that  forced  themselves  to  his  lips  in  spite  of  his  efforts 
to  suppress  them.  For  she  went  on  in  the  same  im 
petuous,  friendly  way: 

"It  seemed  to  me  that  you  have  an  instinct  for  the 
right  that's  unusual  in  men  of  your  class.  At  least,  I 
think  it's  unusual.  I  confess  I've  not  known  any  man 
of  your  class  except  you — and  I  know  you  very 
slightly.  It  was  I  that  persuaded  Victor  to  go  to  you. 
He  believes  that  a  man's  class  feeling  controls  him — 
makes  his  moral  sense — compels  his  actions.  But  I 
12  173 


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thought  you  were  an  exception — and  he  yielded  after 
I  urged  him  a  while." 

"I  don't  know  what  I  am,"  said  Hull  gloomily.  "I 
think  I  want  to  do  right.  But — what  is  right?  Not 
theoretical  right,  but  the  practical,  workable  thing?" 

"That's  true,"  conceded  Selma.  "We  can't  always 
be  certain  what's  right.  But  can't  we  always  know 
what's  wrong?  And,  Mr.  Hull,  it  is  wrong — altogether 
wrong — and  you  know  it's  wrong — to  lend  your  name 
and  your  influence  and  your  reputation  to  that  crowd. 
They'd  let  you  do  a  little  good — why?  To  make  their 
professions  of  reform  seem  plausible.  To  fool  the  peo 
ple  into  trusting  them  again.  And  under  cover  of  the 
little  good  you  were  showily  doing,  how  much  mischief 
they'd  do!  If  you'll  go  back  over  the  history  of  this 
town — of  any  town — of  any  country — you'll  find  that 
most  of  the  wicked  things — the  things  that  pile  the 
burdens  on  the  shoulders  of  the  poor — the  masses — 
most  of  the  wicked  things  have  been  done  under  cover 
of  just  such  men  as  you,  used  as  figureheads." 

"But  I  want  to  build  up  a  new  party — a  party  of 
honest  men,  honestly  led,"  said  Davy. 

"Led  by  your  sort  of  young  men?  I  mean  young 
men  of  your  class.  Led  by  young  lawyers  and  mer 
chants  and  young  fellows  living  on  inherited  incomes? 
Don't  you  see  that's  impossible,"  cried  Selma.  "They 
are  all  living  off  the  labor  of  others.  Their  whole  idea 
of  life  is  exploiting  the  masses — is  reaping  where  they 
have  not  sown  or  reaping  not  only  what  they've  sown 

174 


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but  also  what  others  have  sown — for  they  couldn't  buy 
luxury  and  all  the  so-called  refinements  of  life  for 
themselves  and  their  idle  families  merely  with  what  they 
themselves  could  earn.  How  can  you  build  up  a  really 
honest  party  with  such  men?  They  may  mean  well. 
They  no  doubt  are  honest,  up  to  a  certain  point.  But 
they  will  side  with  their  class,  in  every  crisis.  And 
their  class  is  the  exploiting  class." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  Davy.  "You  are  not 
fair  to  us." 

"How !"  demanded  Selma. 

"I  couldn't  argue  with  you,"  replied  Hull.  "All  I'll 
say  is  that  you've  seen  only  the  one  side — only  the  side 
of  the  working  class." 

"That  toils  without  ceasing — its  men,  its  women,  it& 
children — "  said  the  girl  with  heaving  bosom  and  flash 
ing  eyes —  "only  to  have  most  of  what  it  earns  filched 
away  from  it  by  your  class  to  waste  in  foolish  luxury !" 

"And  whose  fault  is  that?"  pleaded  Hull. 

"The  fault  of  my  class,"  replied  she.  "Their  ignor 
ance,  their  stupidity — yes,  and  their  foolish  cunning 
that  overreaches  itself.  For  they  tolerate  the  abuses  of 
the  present  system  because  each  man — at  least,  each 
man  of  the  ones  who  think  themselves  'smart' — imagines 
that  the  day  is  coming  when  he  can  escape  from  the 
working  class  and  gain  the  ranks  of  the  despoilers." 

"And  you  ask  me  to  come  into  the  party  of  those 
people!"  scoffed  Davy. 

"Yes,  Mr.   Hull,"  said  she — and  until  then  he  had 
175 


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not  appreciated  how  lovely  her  voice  was.  "Yes — that 
is  the  party  for  you — for  all  honest,  sincere  men  who 
want  to  have  their  own  respect  through  and  through. 
To  teach  those  people — to  lead  them  right — to  be 
truthful  and  just  with  them — that  is  the  life  worth 
while." 

"But  they  won't  learn.  They  won't  be  led  right. 
They  are  as  ungrateful  as  they  are  foolish.  If  they 
weren't,  men  like  me  trying  to  make  a  decent  career 
wouldn't  have  to  compromise  with  the  Kellys  and  the 
Houses  and  their  masters.  What  are  Kelly  and  House 
but  leaders  of  your  class  ?  And  they  lead  ten  to  Victor 
Dorn's  one.  Why,  any  day  Dorn's  followers  may  turn 
on  him — and  you  know  it." 

"And  what  of  that?"  cried  Selma.  "He's  not  work 
ing  to  be  their  leader,  but  to  do  what  he  thinks  is 
right,  regardless  of  consequences.  Why  is  he  a  happy 
man,  as  happiness  goes?  Why  has  he  gone  on  his  way 
steadily  all  these  years,  never  minding  setbacks  and 
failures  and  defeats  and  dangers?  I  needn't  tell  you 
why." 

"No,"  said  Hull,  powerfully  moved  by  her  earnest 
ness.  "I  understand." 

"The  finest  sentence  that  ever  fell  from  human  lips," 
Selma  went  on,  "was  'Father,  forgive  them ;  they  know 
not  what  they  do.'  Forgive  them — forgive  us  all — 
for  when  we  go  astray  it  is  because  we  are  in  the  dark. 
And  I  want  you  to  come  with  us,  Mr.  Hull,  and  help 
to  make  it  a  little  less  dark.  At  least,  you  will  then  be 

176 


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looking  toward  the  light — and  every  one  turned  in  that 
direction  counts." 

After  a  long  pause,  Hull  said: 

"Miss  Gordon,  may  I  ask  you  a  very  personal  ques 
tion?" 

"Yes,"  said  she. 

"Are  you  in  love  with  Victor  Dorn?" 

Selma  laughed  merrily.  "Jane  Hastings  had  that 
same  curiosity,"  said  she.  "I'll  answer  you  as  I  an 
swered  her — though  she  didn't  ask  me  quite  so  directly. 
No,  I  am  not  in  love  with  him.  We  are  too  busy  to 
bother  about  those  things.  We  have  too  much  to  do 
to  think  about  ourselves." 

"Then — there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  ask  you 
to  be  my  wife — why  I  should  not  hope — and  try?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  peculiar  smile.  "Yes, 
there  is  a  very  good  reason.  I  do  not  love  you,  and  I 
shall  not  love  you.  I  shall  not  have  time  for  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"Don't  you  believe  in  love?" 

"I  don't  believe  in  much  else,"  said  she.  "But — not 
the  kind  of  love  you  offer  me." 

"How  do  you  know?"  cried  he.  "I  have  not  told 
you  yet  how  I  feel  toward  you.  I  have  not " 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have,"  interrupted  she.  "This  is  the 
second— no,  the  third  time  you  have  seen  me.  So,  the 
love  you  offer  me  can  only  be  of  a  kind  it  is  not  in  the 
least  flattering  to  a  woman  to  inspire.  You  needn't 
apologize,"  she  went  on,  laughingly.  "I've  no  doubt 

177 


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you  mean  well.  You  simply  don't  understand  me — my 
sort  of  woman." 

"It's  you  that  don't  understand,  Selma,"  cried  he. 
"You  don't  realize  how  wonderful  you  are — how  much 
you  reveal  of  yourself  at  once.  I  was  all  but  engaged 
to  another  woman  when  I  saw  you.  I've  been  fighting 
against  my  love  for  you — fighting  against  the  truth 
that  suddenly  came  to  me  that  you  were  the  only 
woman  I  had  ever  seen  who  appealed  to  and  aroused 
and  made  strong  all  that  is  brave  and  honest  in  me. 
Selma,  I  need  you.  I  am  not  infatuated.  I  am  clearer- 
headed  than  I  ever  was  in  my  life.  I  need  you.  You 
can  make  a  man  of  me." 

She  was  regarding  him  with  a  friendly  and  even 
tender  sympathy.  "I  understand  now,"  she  said.  "I 
thought  it  was  simply  the  ordinary  outburst  of  passion. 
But  I  see  that  it  was  the  result  of  your  struggle  with 
yourself  about  which  road  to  take  in  making  a  career." 

If  she  had  not  been  absorbed  in  developing  her 
theory  she  might  have  seen  that  Davy  was  not  alto 
gether  satisfied  with  this  analysis  of  his  feelings.  But 
he  deemed  it  wise  to  hold  his  peace. 

"You  do  need  some  one — some  woman,"  she  went  on. 
"And  I  am  anxious  to  help  you  all  I  can.  I  couldn't 

help  you  by  marrying  you.  To  me  marriage  means " 

She  checked  herself  abruptly.  "No  matter.  I  can 
help  you,  I  think,  as  a  friend.  But  if  you  wish  to 
marry,  you  should  take  some  one  in  your  own  class — 
some  one  who's  in  sympathy  with  you.  Then  you  and 

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she  could  work  it  out  together — could  help  each  other. 
You  see,  I  don't  need  you — and  there's  nothing  in  one 
sided  marriages.  .  .  .  No,  you  couldn't  give  me 
anything  I  need,  so  far  as  I  can  see." 

"I  believe  that's  true,"  said  Davy  miserably. 

She  reflected,  then  continued:  "But  there's  Jane 
Hastings.  Why  not  marry  her?  She  is  having  the 
same  sort  of  struggle  with  herself.  You  and  she  could 
help  each  other.  And  you're,  both  of  you,  fine  char 
acters.  I  like  each  of  you  for  exactly  the  same  rea 
sons.  .  .  .  Yes — Jane  needs  you,  and  you  need 
her."  She  looked  at  him  with  her  sweet,  frank  smile 
like  a  breeze  straight  from  the  sweep  of  a  vast  plateau. 
"Why,  it's  so  obvious  that  I  wonder  you  and  she 
haven't  become  engaged  long  ago.  You  are  fond  of 
her,  aren't  you?" 

"Oh,  Selma,"  cried  Davy,  "I  love  you.     I  want  you" 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  quaint,  fascinating  ex 
pression  of  positiveness.  "Now,  my  friend,"  said  she, 
"drop  that  fancy.  It  isn't  sensible.  And  it  threatens 
to  become  silly."  Her  smile  suddenly  expanded  into  a 
laugh.  "The  idea  of  you  and  me  married — of  me 
married  to  you!  I'd  drive  you  crazy.  No,  I  shouldn't 
stay  long  enough  for  that.  I'd  be  off  on  the  wings 
of  the  wind  to  the  other  end  of  the  earth  as  soon  as 
you  tried  to  put  a  halter  on  me." 

He  did  not  join  in  her  laugh.  She  rose.  "You  will 
think  again  before  you  go  in  with  those  people — won't 
you,  David?"  she  said,  sober  and  earnest. 

179 


THE    CONFLICT 


"I  don't  care  what  becomes  of  me,"  he  said  boyishly. 

"But  /  do,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  see  you  the  man 
you  can  be." 

"Then — marry  me,"  he  cried. 

Her  eyes  looked  gentle  friendship;  her  passionate 
lips  curled  in  scorn.  "I  might  marry  the  sort  of  man 
you  could  be,"  she  said,  "but  I  never  could  marry  a 
man  so  weak  that,  without  me  to  bolster  him  up,  he'd 
become  a  stool-pigeon." 

And  she  turned  and  walked  away. 


V. 


A  few  days  later,  after  she  had  taken  her  daily  two 
hours'  walk,  Selma  went  into  the  secluded  part  of 
Washington  Park  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning 
writing.  Her  walk  was  her  habitual  time  for  thinking 
out  her  plans  for  the  day.  And  when  it  was  writing 
that  she  had  to  do,  and  the  weather  was  fine,  that 
particular  hillside  with  its  splendid  shade  so  restful 
for  the  eyes  and  so  stimulating  to  the  mind  became  her 
work-shop.  She  thought  that  she  was  helped  as  much 
by  the  colors  of  grass  and  foliage  as  by  the  soft 
ened  light  and  the  tranquil  view  out  over  hills  and 
valleys. 

When  she  had  finished  her  article  she  consulted  the 
little  nickel  watch  she  carried  in  her  bag  and  discov 
ered  that  it  was  only  one  o'clock.  She  had  counted 
on  getting  through  at  three  or  half  past.  Two  hours 
gained.  How  could  she  best  use  them.  The  part  of 
the  Park  where  she  was  sitting  was  separated  from  the 
Hastings  grounds  only  by  the  winding  highroad  mak 
ing  its  last  reach  for  the  top  of  the  hill.  She  decided 
that  she  would  go  to  see  Jane  Hastings — would  try 
to  make  tactful  progress  in  her  project  of  helping 
Jane  and  David  Hull  by  marrying  them  to  each  other. 
Once  she  had  hit  upon  this  project  her  interest  in  both 

181 


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of  them  had  equally  increased.  Yes,  these  gained  two 
hours  was  an  opportunity  not  to  be  neglected. 

She  put  her  papers  into  her  shopping  bag  and  went 
straight  up  the  steep  hill.  She  arrived  at  the  top,  at 
the  edge  of  the  lawn  before  Jane's  house,  with  some 
what  heightened  color  and  brightened  eyes,  but  with  no 
quickening  of  the  breath.  Her  slim,  solid  little  body 
had  all  the  qualities  of  endurance  of  those  wiry  ponies 
that  come  from  the  regions  her  face  and  walk  and  the 
careless  grace  of  her  hair  so  delightfully  suggested. 
As  she  advanced  toward  the  house  she  saw  a  gay  com 
pany  assembled  on  the  wide  veranda.  Jane  was  giving 
a  farewell  luncheon  for  her  visitors,  had  asked  almost 
a  dozen  of  the  most  presentable  girls  in  the  town.  It 
was  a  very  fashionable  affair,  and  everyone  had  dressed 
for  it  in  the  best  she  had  to  wear  at  that  time  of  day. 

Selma  saw  the  company  while  there  was  still  time  for 
her  to  draw  back  and  descend  into  the  woods.  But 
she  knew  little  about  conventionalities,  and  she  cared 
not  at  all  about  them.  She  had  come  to  see  Jane;  she 
conducted  herself  precisely  as  she  would  have  expected 
any  one  to  act  who  came  to  see  her  at  any  time.  She 
marched  straight  across  the  lawn.  The  hostess,  the 
fashionable  visitors,  the  fashionable  guests  soon  cen 
tered  upon  the  extraordinary  figure  moving  toward 
them  under  that  blazing  sun.  The  figure  was  ex 
traordinary  not  for  dress — the  dress  was  plain  and 
unconspicuous — but  for  that  expression  of  the  free 
and  the  untamed,  the  lack  of  self-consciousness  so 

182 


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rarely  seen  except  in  children  and  animals.  Jane 
rushed  to  the  steps  to  welcome  her,  seized  her  extended 
hands  and  kissed  her  with  as  much  enthusiasm  as  she 
kissed  Jane.  There  was  sincerity  in  this  greeting  of 
Jane's;  but  there  was  pose,  also.  Here  was  one  of 
those  chances  to  do  the  unconventional,  the  democratic 
thing. 

"What  a  glorious  surprise!"  cried  Jane.  "You'll 
stop  for  lunch,  of  course?"  Then  to  the  girls  nearest 
them:  "This  is  Selma  Gordon,  who  writes  for  the  New 
Day." 

Pronouncing  of  names — smiles — bows — veiled  glances 
of  curiosity — several  young  women  exchanging  whis 
pered  comments  of  amusement.  And  to  be  sure,  Selma, 
in  that  simple  costume,  gloveless,  with  dusty  shoes  and 
blown  hair,  did  look  very  much  out  of  place.  But 
then  Selma  would  have  looked,  in  a  sense,  out  of  place 
anywhere  but  in  a  wilderness  with  perhaps  a  few  tents 
and  a  half-tamed  herd  as  background.  In  another 
sense,  she  seemed  in  place  anywhere  as  any  natural 
object  must. 

"I  don't  eat  lunch,"  said  Selma.  "But  I'll  stay- if 
you'll  put  me  next  to  you  and  let  me  talk  to  you." 

She  did  not  realize  what  an  upsetting  of  order  and 
precedence  this  request,  which  seemed  so  simple  to  her, 
involved.  Jane  hesitated,  but  only  for  a  fraction  of  a 
second.  "Why,  certainly,"  said  she.  "Now  that  I've 
got  you  I'd  not  let  you  go  in  any  circumstances." 

Selma  was  gazing  around  at  the  other  girls  with  the 
183 


THE   CONFLICT 


frank  and  pleased  curiosity  of  a  child.  "Gracious,  what 
pretty  clothes!"  she  cried— she  was  addressing  Miss 
Clearwater,  of  Cincinnati.  "I've  read  about  this  sort 
of  thing  in  novels  and  in  society  columns  of  newspapers. 
But  I  never  saw  it  before.  Isn't  it  interesting!" 

Miss  Clearwater,  whose  father  was  a  United  States 
Senator — by  purchase — had  had  experience  of  many 
oddities,  male  and  female.  She  also  was  attracted  by 
Selma's  sparkling  delight,  and  by  the  magnetic  charm 
which  she  irradiated  as  a  rose  its  perfume.  "Pretty 
clothes  are  attractive,  aren't  they?"  said  she,  to  be 
saying  something. 

"I  don't  know  a  thing  about  clothes,"  confessed 
Selma.  "I've  never  owned  at  the  same  time  more  than 
two  dresses  fit  to  wear — usually  only  one.  And  quite 
enough  for  me.  I'd  only  be  fretted  by  a  lot  of  things 
of  that  kind.  But  I  like  to  see  them  on  other  people. 
If  I  had  my  way  the  whole  world  would  be  well  dressed." 

"Except  you?"  said  Ellen  Clearwater  with  a  smile. 

"I  couldn't  be  well  dressed  if  I  tried,"  replied  Selma. 
"When  I  was  a  child  I  was  the  despair  of  my  mother. 
Most  of  the  people  in  the  tenement  where  we  lived 
were  very  dirty  and  disorderly — naturally  enough,  as 
they  had  no  knowledge  and  no  money  and  no  time.  But 
mother  had  ideas  of  neatness  and  cleanliness,  and  she 
used  to  try  to  keep  me  looking  decent.  But  it  was  of 
no  use.  Ten  minutes  after  she  had  smoothed  me 
down  I  was  flying  every  which  way  again." 

"You  were  brought  up  in  a  tenement?"  said  Miss 
184 


THE   CONFLICT 


Clearwater.  Several  of  the  girls  within  hearing  were 
blushing  for  Selma  and  were  feeling  how  distressed  Jane 
Hastings  must  be. 

"I  had  a  wonderfully  happy  childhood,"  replied 
Selma.  "Until  I  was  old  enough  to  understand  and 
to  suffer.  I've  lived  in  tenements  all  my  life — among 
very  poor  people.  I'd  not  feel  at  home  anywhere 
else." 

"When  I  was  born,"  said  Miss  Clearwater,  "we  lived 
in  a  log  cabin  up  in  the  mining  district  of  Michigan." 

Selma  showed  the  astonishment  the  other  girls  were 
feeling.  But  while  their  astonishment  was  in  part  at  a 
girl  of  Ellen  Clearwater's  position  making  such  a  de 
grading  confession,  hers  had  none  of  that  element  in  it. 
"You  don't  in  the  least  suggest  a  log  cabin  or  poverty 
of  any  kind,"  said  she.  "I  supposed  you  had  always 
been  rich  and  beautifully  dressed." 

"No,  indeed,"  replied  Ellen.  She  gazed  calmly  round 
at  the  other  girls  who  were  listening.  "I  doubt  if  any 
of  us  here  was  born  to  what  you  see.  Of  course  we — 
some  of  us — make  pretenses — all  sorts  of  silly  pre 
tenses.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  there  isn't  one  of  us 
who  hasn't  near  relatives  in  the  cabins  or  the  tenements 
at  this  very  moment." 

There  was  a  hasty  turning  away  from  this  danger 
ous  conversation.  Jane  came  back  from  ordering  the 
rearrangement  of  her  luncheon  table.  Said  Selma: 

"I'd  like  to  wash  my  hands,  and  smooth  my  hair  a 
little." 

185 


THE    CONFLICT 


"You  take  her  up,  Ellen,"  said  Jane.  "And  hurry. 
We'll  be  in  the  dining-room  when  you  come  down." 

Selma's  eyes  were  wide  and  roving  as  she  and  Ellen 
went  through  the  drawing-room,  the  hall,  up  stairs  and 
into  the  very  prettily  furnished  suite  which  Ellen  was 
occupying.  "I  never  saw  anything  like  this  before!" 
exclaimed  Selma.  "It's  the  first  time  I  was  ever  in  a 
grand  house.  This  is  a  grand  house,  isn't  it?" 

"No — it's  only  comfortable,"  replied  Ellen.  "Mr. 
Hastings — and  Jane,  too,  don't  go  in  for  grandeur." 

"How  beautiful  everything  is — and  how  convenient !" 
exclaimed  Selma.  "I  haven't  felt  this  way  since  the 
first  time  I  went  to  the  circus."  She  pointed  to  a  rack 
from  which  were  suspended  thin  silk  dressing  gowns  of 
various  rather  gay  patterns.  "What  are  those?"  she 
inquired. 

"Dressing  gowns,"  said  Ellen.  "Just  to  wear  round 
while  one  is  dressing  or  undressing." 

Selma  advanced  and  felt  and  examined  them. 
"But  why  so  many?"  she  inquired. 

"Oh,  foolishness,"  said  Ellen.  "Indulgence!  To 
suit  different  moods." 

"Lovely,"  murmured  Selma.     "Lovely!" 

"I  suspect  you  of  a  secret  fondness  for  luxury,"  said 
Ellen  slyly. 

Selma  laughed.  "What  would  I  do  with  such 
things?"  she  inquired.  "Why,  I'd  have  no  time  to 
wear  them.  I'd  never  dare  put  on  anything  so  deli 
cate." 

186 


THE   CONFLICT 


She  roamed  through  dressing-room,  bedroom,  bath 
room,  marveling,  inquiring,  admiring.  "I'm  so  glad 
I  came,"  said  she.  "This  will  give  me  a  fresh  point  of 
view.  I  can  understand  the  people  of  your  class 
better,  and  be  more  tolerant  about  them.  I  understand 
now  why  they  are  so  hard  and  so  indifferent.  They're 
quite  removed  from  the  common  lot.  They  don't 
realize ;  they  can't.  How  narrow  it  must  make  one  to 
have  one's  life  filled  with  these  pretty  little  things  for 
luxury  and  show.  Why,  if  I  lived  this  life,  I'd  cease 
to  be  human  after  a  short  time." 

Ellen  was  silent. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  rude  or  offensive," 
said  Selma,  sensitive  to  the  faintest  impressions.  "I 
was  speaking  my  thoughts  aloud.  .  .  .  Do  you 
know  David  Hull?" 

"The  young  reformer?"  said  Ellen  with  a  queer 
little  smile.  "Yes — quite  well." 

"Does  he  live  like  this?" 

"Rather  more  grandly,"  said  Ellen. 

Selma  shook  her  head.  A  depressed  expression  set 
tled  upon  her  features.  "It's  useless,"  she  said.  "He 
couldn't  possibly  become  a  man." 

Ellen  laughed.  "You  must  hurry,"  she  said.  "We're 
keeping  everyone  waiting." 

As  Selma  was  making  a  few  passes  at  her  rebellious 
thick  hair — passes  the  like  of  which  Miss  Clearwater 
had  never  before  seen — she  explained : 

"I've  been  somewhat  interested  in  David  Hull  of 
187 


THE   CONFLICT 


late — have  been  hoping  he  could  graduate  from  a  fake 
reformer  into  a  useful  citizen.  But — "  She  looked 
round  expressively  at  the  luxury  surrounding  them — 
"one  might  as  well  try  to  grow  wheat  in  sand." 

"Davy  is  a  fine  fraud,"  said  Ellen.  "Fine — because 
he  doesn't  in  the  least  realize  that  he's  a  fraud." 

"I'm  afraid  he  is  a  fraud,"  said  Selma  setting  on 
her  hat  again.  "What  a  pity?  He  might  have  been 
a  man,  if  he'd  been  brought  up  properly."  She  gazed 
at  Ellen  with  sad,  shining  eyes.  "How  many  men  and 
women  luxury  blights !"  she  cried. 

"It  certainly  has  done  for  Davy,"  said  Ellen  lightly. 
"He'll  never  be  anything  but  a  respectable  fraud." 

"Why  do  you  think  so?"  Selma  inquired. 

"My  father  is  a  public  man,"  Miss  Clearwater  ex 
plained.  "And  I've  seen  a  great  deal  of  these  re 
formers.  They're  the  ordinary  human  variety  of  poli 
tician  plus  a  more  or  less  conscious  hypocrisy. 
Usually  they're  men  who  fancy  themselves  superior  to 
the  common  run  in  birth  and  breeding.  My  father  has 
taught  me  to  size  them  up." 

They  went  down,  and  Selma,  seated  between  Jane 
and  Miss  Clearwater,  amused  both  with  her  frank  com 
ments  on  the  scene  so  strange  to  her — the  beautiful 
table,  the  costly  service,  the  variety  and  profusion  of 
elaborate  food.  In  fact,  Jane,  reaching  out  after  the 
effects  got  easily  in  Europe  and  almost  as  easily  in  the 
East,  but  overtaxed  the  resources  of  the  household 
which  she  was  only  beginning  to  get  into  what  she  re- 

188 


THE   CONFLICT 


garded  as  satisfactory  order.  The  luncheon,  there 
fore,  was  a  creditable  and  promising  attempt  rather 
than  a  success,  from  the  standpoint  of  fashion.  Jane 
was  a  little  ashamed,  and  at  times  extremely  nervous — 
this  when  she  saw  signs  of  her  staff  falling  into  dis 
order  that  might  end  in  rout.  But  Selma  saw  none 
of  the  defects.  She  was  delighted  with  the  dazzling 
spectacle — for  two  or  three  courses.  Then  she  lapsed 
into  quiet  and  could  not  be  roused  to  speak. 

Jane  and  Ellen  thought  she  was  overwhelmed  and 
had  been  seized  of  shyness  in  this  company  so  superior 
to  any  in  which  she  had  ever  found  herself.  Ellen 
tried  to  induce  her  to  eat,  and,  failing,  decided  that 
her  refraining  was  not  so  much  firmness  in  the  two 
meals-a-day  system  as  fear  of  making  a  "break."  She 
felt  genuinely  sorry  for  the  silent  girl  growing  moment 
by  moment  more  ill-at-ease.  When  the  luncheon  was 
about  half  over  Selma  said  abruptly  to  Jane : 

"I  must  go  now.      I've  stayed  longer  than  I  should." 

"Go?"  cried  Jane.  "Why,  we  haven't  begun  to  talk 
yet." 

"Another  time,"  said  Selma,  pushing  back  her  chair. 
"No,  don't  rise."  And  up  she  darted,  smiling  gayly 
round  at  the  company.  "Don't  anybody  disturb 
herself,"  she  pleaded.  "It'll  be  useless,  for  I'll  be 
gone." 

And  she  was  as  good  as  her  word.  Before  any  one 
quite  realized  what  she  was  about,  she  had  escaped 
from  the  dining-room  and  from  the  house.  She  almost 
13  189 


THE   CONFLICT 


ran  across  the  lawn  and  into  the  woods.  There  she 
drew  a  long  breath  noisily. 

"Free !"  she  cried,  flinging  out  her  arms.  "Oh — but 
it  was  dreadful!" 

Miss  Hastings  and  Miss  Clearwater  had  not  been  so 
penetrating  as  they  fancied.  Embarrassment  had  noth 
ing  to  do  with  the  silence  that  had  taken  possession  of 
the  associate  editor  of  the  New  Day.  She  was  never 
self-conscious  enough  to  be  really  shy.  She  hastened 
to  the  office,  meeting  Victor  Dorn  in  the  street  door 
way.  She  cried: 

"Such  an  experience!" 

"What  now?"  said  Victor.  He  was  used  to  that 
phrase  from  the  ardent  and  impressionable  Selma.  For 
her,  with  her  wide-open  eyes  and  ears,  her  vivid  imagi 
nation  and  her  thirsty  mind,  life  was  one  closely  packed 
series  of  adventures. 

"I  had  an  hour  to  spare,"  she  proceeded  to  explain. 
"I  thought  it  was  a  chance  to  further  a  little  scheme 
I've  got  for  marrying  Jane  Hastings  and  David  Hull." 

"Um !"  said  Victor  with  a  quick  change  of  expression 
— which,  however,  Selma  happened  not  to  observe. 

"And,"  she  went  on,  "I  blundered  into  a  luncheon 
party  Jane  was  giving.  You  never  saw — you  never 
dreamed  of  such  style — such  dresses  and  dishes  and 
flowers  and  hats !  And  I  was  sitting  there  with  them, 
enjoying  it  all  as  if  it  were  a  circus  or  a  ballet,  when — 
Oh,  Victor,  what  a  silly,  what  a  pitiful  waste  of  time 
and  money!  So  much  to  do  in  the  world — so  much 

190 


THE   CONFLICT 


that  is  thrillingly  interesting  and  useful — and  those  in 
telligent  young  people  dawdling  there  at  nonsense  a 
child  would  weary  of!  I  had  to  run  away.  If  I 
had  stayed  another  minute  I  should  have  burst  out  cry 
ing — or  denouncing  them — or  pleading  with  them  to 
behave  themselves." 

"What  else  can  they  do?"  said  Victor.  "They  don't 
know  any  better.  They've  never  been  taught.  How's 
the  article?" 

And  he  led  the  way  up  to  the  editorial  room  and  held 
her  to  the  subject  of  the  article  he  had  asked  her  to 
write.  At  the  first  opportunity  she  went  back  to  the 
subject  uppermost  in  her  mind.  Said  she: 

"I  guess  you're  right — as  usual.  There's  no  hope 
for  any  people  of  that  class.  The  busy  ones  are  think 
ing  only  of  making  money  for  themselves,  and  the  idle 
ones  are  too  enfeebled  by  luxury  to  think  at  all.  No, 
I'm  afraid  there's  no  hope  for  Hull — or  for  Jane 
either." 

"I'm  not  sure  about  Miss  Hastings,"  said  Victor. 

"You  would  have  been  if  you'd  seen  her  to-day,"  re 
plied  Selma.  "Oh,  she  was  lovely,  Victor — really  won 
derful  to  look  at.  But  so  obviously  the  idler.  And — 
body  and  soul  she  belongs  to  the  upper  class.  She 
understands  charity,  but  she  doesn't  understand  jus 
tice,  and  never  could  understand  it.  I  shall  let  her 
alone  hereafter." 

"How  harsh  you  women  are  in  your  judgments  of 
each  other,"  laughed  Dorn,  busy  at  his  desk. 

191 


THE   CONFLICT 


"We  are  just,"  replied  Selma.  "We  are  not  fooled 
by  each  other's  pretenses." 

Dorn  apparently  had  not  heard.  Selma  saw  that 
to  speak  would  be  to  interrupt.  She  sat  at  her  own 
table  and  set  to  work  on  the  editorial  paragraphs. 
After  perhaps  an  hour  she  happened  to  glance  at  Vic 
tor.  He  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  gazing  past 
her  out  into  the  open;  in  his  face  was  an  expression 
she  had  never  seen — a  look  in  the  eyes,  a  relaxing  of 
the  muscles  round  the  mouth  that  made  her  think  of 
him  as  a  man  instead  of  as  a  leader.  She  was  saying 
to  herself.  "What  a  fascinating  man  he  would  have 
been,  if  he  had  not  been  an  incarnate  cause." 

She  felt  that  he  was  not  thinking  of  his  work.  She 
longed  to  talk  to  him,  but  she  did  not  venture  to  inter 
rupt.  Never  in  all  the  years  she  had  known  him  had  he 
spoken  to  her — or  to  any  one — a  severe  or  even  an  im 
patient  word.  His  tolerance,  his  good  humor  were  in 
finite.  Yet — she,  and  all  who  came  into  contact  with 
him,  were  afraid  of  him.  There  could  come,  and  on 
occasion  there  did  come — into  those  extraordinary  blue 
eyes  an  expression  beside  which  the  fiercest  flash  of 
wrath  would  be  easy  to  face. 

When  she  glanced  at  him  again,  his  normal  expres 
sion  had  returned — the  face  of  the  leader  who  aroused 
in  those  he  converted  into  fellow-workers  a  fanatical 
devotion  that  was  the  more  formidable  because  it  was 
not  infatuated.  He  caught  her  eye  and  said : 

"Things  are  in  such  good  shape  for  us  that  it 
192 


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frightens  me.  I  spend  most  of  my  time  in  studying 
the  horizon  in  the  hope  that  I  can  foresee  which  way 
the  storm's  coming  from  and  what  it  will  be." 

"What  a  pessimist  you  are !"  laughed  Selma. 

"That's  why  the  Workingmen's  League  has  a  thick- 
and-thin  membership  of  thirteen  hundred  and  fifty," 
replied  Victor.  "That's  why  the  New  Day  has  twenty- 
two  hundred  paying  subscribers.  That's  why  we  grow 
faster  than  the  employers  can  weed  our  men  out  and 
replace  them  with  immigrants  and  force  them  to  go  to 
other  towns  for  work." 

"Well,  anyhow,"  said  the  girl,  "no  matter  what  hap 
pens  we  can't  be  weeded  out." 

Victor  shook  his  head.  "Our  danger  period  has 
just  begun,"  he  replied.  "The  bosses  realize  our 
power.  In  the  past  we've  been  annoyed  a  little  from 
time  to  time.  But  they  thought  us  hardly  worth  both 
ering  with.  In  the  future  we  will  have  to  fight." 

"I  hope  they  will  prosecute  us,"  said  Selma.  "Then, 
we'll  grow  the  faster." 

"Not  if  they  do  it  intelligently,"  replied  Victor. 
"An  intelligent  persecution — if  it's  relentless  enough 
— always  succeeds.  You  forget  that  this  isn't  a  world 
of  moral  ideas  but  of  force.  ...  I  am  afraid  of 
Dick  Kelly.  He  is  something  more  than  a  vulgar  boss. 
He  sees.  My  hope  is  that  he  won't  be  able  to  make 
the  others  see.  I  saw  him  a  while  ago.  He  was  ex 
tremely  polite  to  me — more  so  than  he  ever  has  been 

before.  He  is  up  to  something.  I  suspect " 

193 


THE    CONFLICT 


Victor  paused,  reflecting.  "What?"  asked  Selma 
eagerly. 

"I  suspect  that  he  thinks  he  has  us."  He  rose,  pre 
paring  to  go  out.  "Well — if  he  has — why,  he  has. 
And  we  shall  have  to  begin  all  over  again." 

"How  stupid  they  are!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "To 
fight  us  who  are  simply  trying  to  bring  about  peace 
ably  and  sensibly  what's  bound  to  come  about  any 
how." 

"Yes — the  rain  is  bound  to  come,"  said  Victor. 
"And  we  say,  'Here's  an  umbrella  and  there's  the  way 
to  shelter.'  And  they  laugh  at  our  umbrella  and,  with 
the  first  drops  plashing  on  their  foolish  faces,  deny 
that  it's  going  to  rain." 

The  Workingmen's  League,  always  first  in  the  field 
with  its  ticket,  had  been  unusually  early  that  year. 
Although  it  was  only  the  first  week  in  August  and  the 
election  would  not  be  until  the  third  of  October,  the 
League  had  nominated.  It  was  a  ticket  made  up  en 
tirely  of  skilled  workers  who  had  lived  all  their  lives 
in  Remsen  City  and  who  had  acquired  an  independ 
ence — Victor  Dorn  was  careful  not  to  expose  to  the 
falling  fire  of  the  opposition  any  of  his  men  who  could 
be  ruined  by  the  loss  of  a  job  or  could  be  compelled 
to  leave  town  in  search  of  work.  The  League  always 
went  early  into  campaign  because  it  pursued  a  much 
slower  and  less  expensive  method  of  electioneering  than 
either  of  the  old  parties — or  than  any  of  the  "upper 
class"  reform  parties  that  sprang  up  from  time  to 

194 


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time  and  died  away  as  they  accomplished  or  failed  of 
their  purpose — securing  recognition  for  certain  per 
sonal  ambitions  not  agreeable  to  the  old  established 
bosses.  Besides,  the  League  was,  like  the  bosses  and 
their  henchmen,  in  politics  every  day  in  every  year. 
The  League  theory  was  that  politics  was  as  much  a 
part  of  a  citizen's  daily  routine  as  his  other  work  or 
his  meals. 

It  was  the  night  of  the  League's  great  ratification 
meeting.  The  next  day  the  first  campaign  number — 
containing  the  biographical  sketch  of  Tony  Rivers, 
Kelly's  right-hand  man  .'  .  .  would  go  upon  the 
press,  and  on  the  following  day  it  would  reach  the 
public. 

Market  Square  in  Remsen  City  was  on  the  edge  of 
the  power  quarter,  was  surrounded  by  cheap  hotels, 
boarding  houses  and  saloons.  A  few  years  before  the 
most  notable  citizens,  market  basket  on  arm,  could 
have  been  seen  three  mornings  in  the  week,  making 
the  rounds  of  the  stalls  and  stands,  both  those  in  the 
open  and  those  within  the  Market  House.  But  cus 
toms  had  rapidly  changed  in  Remsen  City,  and  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  old  fogies  only  the  poorer 
classes  went  to  market.  The  masters  of  houses  were 
becoming  gentlemen,  and  the  housewives  were  elevat 
ing  into  ladies — and  it  goes  without  saying  that  no 
gentleman  and  no  lady  would  descend  to  a  menial  task 
even  in  private,  much  less  in  public. 

Market  Square  had  even  become  too  common  for 
195 


THE    CONFLICT 


any  but  the  inferior  meetings  of  the  two  leading  polit 
ical  parties.  Only  the  Workingmen's  League  held  to 
the  old  tradition  that  a  political  meeting  of  the  first 
rank  could  be  properly  held  nowhere  but  in  the  natu 
ral  assembling  place  of  the  people — their  market.  So, 
their  first  great  rally  of  the  campaign  was  billed  for 
Market  Square.  And  at  eight  o'clock,  headed  by  a 
large  and  vigorous  drum  corps,  the  Victor  Dorn  co 
horts  at  their  full  strength  marched  into  the  centre 
of  the  Square,  where  one  of  the  stands  had  been 
transformed  with  flags,  bunting  and  torches  into  a 
speaker's  platform.  A  crowd  of  many  thousands  ac 
companied  and  followed  the  procession.  Working- 
men's  League  meetings  were  popular,  even  among  those 
who  believed  their  interests  lay  elsewhere.  At  League 
meetings  one  heard  the  plain  truth,  sometimes  extremely 
startling  plain  truth.  The  League  had  no  favors  to 
ask  of  anybody,  had  nothing  to  conceal,  was  strongly 
opposed  to  any  and  all  political  concealments.  Thus, 
its  speakers  enjoyed  a  freedom  not  usual  in  political 
speaking — and  Dorn  and  his  fellow-leaders  were  care 
ful  that  no  router,  no  exaggerator  or  well  intentioned 
wild  man  of  any  kind  should  open  his  mouth  under  a 
league  banner.  That  was  what  made  the  League  so 
dangerous — and  so  steadily  prosperous. 

The  chairman,  Thomas  Colman,  the  cooper,  was 
opening  the  meeting  in  a  speech  which  was  an  instance 
of  how  well  a  man  of  no  platform  talent  can  acquit 
himself  when  he  believes  something  and  believes  it  is 

196 


THE    CONFLICT 


his  duty  to  convey  it  to  his  fellow-men.  Victor  Dorn, 
to  be  the  fourth  speaker  and  the  orator  of  the  even 
ing,  was  standing  at  the  rear  of  the  platform  par 
tially  concealed  by  the  crowd  of  men  and  women  lead 
ers  of  the  party  grouped  behind  Colman.  As  always 
at  the  big  formal  demonstrations  of  the  League,  Victor 
was  watching  every  move.  This  evening  his  anxiety 
was  deeper  than  ever  before.  His  trained  political 
sagacity  warned  him  that,  as  he  had  suggested  to 
Selma,  the  time  of  his  party's  first  great  crisis  was 
at  hand.  No  movement  could  become  formidable  with 
out  a  life  and  death  struggle,  when  its  aim  frankly 
was  to  snatch  power  from  the  dominant  class  and  to 
place  it  where  that  class  could  not  hope  to  prevail 
either  by  direct  means  of  force  or  by  its  favorite  indi 
rect  means  of  bribery.  What  would  Kelly  do?  What 
would  be  his  stroke  at  the  very  life  of  the  League? — 
for  Victor  had  measured  Kelly  and  knew  he  was  not 
one  to  strike  until  he  could  destroy. 

Like  every  competent  man  of  action,  Victor  had  meas 
ured  his  own  abilities,  and  had  found  that  they  were  to 
be  relied  upon.  But  the  contest  between  him  and  Kelly — 
the  contest  in  the  last  ditch — was  so  appallingly  un 
equal.  Kelly  had  the  courts  and  the  police,  the 
moneyed  class,  the  employers  of  labor,  had  the  clergy 
and  well-dressed  respectability,  the  newspapers,  all  the 
customary  arbiters  of  public  sentiment.  Also,  he  had 
the  criminal  and  the  semi-criminal  classes.  And  what 
had  the  League?  The  letter  of  the  law,  guaranteeing 

197 


THE    CONFLICT 


freedom  of  innocent  speech  and  action,  guaranteeing 
the  purity  of  the  ballot — no,  not  guaranteeing,  but 
simply  asserting  those  rights,  and  leaving  the  upholding 
of  them  to — Kelly's  allies  and  henchmen!  Also,  the 
League  had  the  power  of  between  a  thousand  and  fifteen 
hundred  intelligent  and  devoted  men  and  about  the 
same  number  of  women — a  solid  phalanx  of  great 
might,  of  might  far  beyond  its  numbers.  Finally,  it 
had  Victor  Dorn.  He  had  no  mean  opinion  of  his  value 
to  the  movement ;  but  he  far  and  most  modestly  under 
estimated  it.  The  human  way  of  rallying  to  an  abstract 
principle  is  by  way  of  a  standard  bearer — a  man — per 
sonality — a  real  or  fancied  incarnation  of  the  ideal  to 
be  struggled  for.  And  to  the  Workingmen's  League, 
to  the  movement  for  conquering  Remsen  City  for 
the  mass  of  its  citizens,  Victor  Dorn  was  that  incarna 
tion. 

Kelly  could  use  violence — violence  disguised  as  law, 
violence  candidly  and  brutally  lawless.  Victor  Dorn 
could  only  use  lawful  means — clearly  and  cautiously 
lawful  means.  He  must  at  all  costs  prevent  the  use  of 
force  against  him  and  his  party — must  give  Kelly  no 
pretext  for  using  the  law  lawlessly.  If  Kelly  used 
force  against  him,  whether  the  perverted  law  of  the 
courts  or  open  lawlessness,  he  must  meet  it  with  peace. 
If  Kelly  smote  him  on  the  right  cheek  he  must  give  him 
the  left  to  be  smitten. 

When  the  League  could  outvote  Kelly,  then- — another 
policy,  still  of  calmness  and  peace  and  civilization,  but 

198 


THE   CONFLICT 


not  so  meek.    But  until  the  League  could  outvote  Kelly, 
nothing  but  patient  endurance. 

Every  man  in  the  League  had  been  drilled  in  this 
strategy.  Every  man  understood — and  to  be  a  member 
of  the  League  meant  that  one  was  politically  educated. 
Victor  believed  in  his  associates  as  he  believed  in  him 
self.  Still,  human  nature  was  human  nature.  If  Kelly 
should  suddenly  offer  some  adroit  outrageous  provoca 
tion — would  the  League  be  able  to  resist? 

Victor,  on  guard,  studied  the  crowd  spreading  out 
from  the  platform  in  a  gigantic  fan.  Nothing  there 
to  arouse  suspicion ;  ten  or  twelve  thousand  of  working 
class  men  and  women.  His  glance  pushed  on  out  to 
ward  the  edges  of  the  crowd — toward  the  saloons  and 
alleys  of  the  disreputable  south  side  of  Market  Square. 
His  glance  traveled  slowly  along,  pausing  upon  each 
place  where  these  loungers,  too  far  away  to  hear,  were 
gathered  into  larger  groups.  Why  he  did  not  know, 
but  suddenly  his  glance  wheeled  to  the  right,  and  then 
as  suddenly  to  the  left — the  west  and  the  east  ends  of 
the  square.  There,  on  either  side  he  recognized,  in  the 
farthest  rim  of  the  crowd,  several  of  the  men  who  did 
Kelly's  lowest  kinds  of  dirty  work — the  brawlers,  the 
repeaters,  the  leaders  of  gangs,  the  false  witnesses  for 
petty  corporation  damage  cases.  A  second  glance,  and 
he  saw  or,  perhaps,  divined — purpose  in  those  sinister 
presences.  He  looked  for  the  police — the  detail  of  a 
dozen  bluecoats  always  assigned  to  large  open-air  meet 
ings.  Not  a  policeman  was  to  be  seen. 

199 


THE   CONFLICT 


Victor  pushed  through  the  crowd  on  the  platform, 
advanced  to  the  side  of  Colman.  "Just  a  minute,  Tom," 
he  said.  "I've  got  to  say  a  word — at  once." 

Colman  had  fallen  back ;  Victor  Dorn  was  facing  the 
crowd — his  crowd — the  men  and  women  who  loved  him. 
In  the  clear,  friendly,  natural  voice  that  marked  him  for 
the  leader  born,  the  honest  leader  of  an  honest  cause,  he 
said: 

"My  friends,  if  there  is  an  attempt  to  disturb  this 
meeting,  remember  what  we  of  the  League  stand  for. 
No  violence.  Draw  away  from  every  disturber,  and 
wait  for  the  police  to  act.  If  the  police  stop  our  meet 
ing,  let  them — and  be  ready  to  go  to  court  and  testify 
to  the  exact  words  of  the  speaker  on  which  the  meeting 
was  stopped.  Remember,  we  must  be  more  lawful  than 
the  law  itself !" 

He  was  turning  away.  A  cheer  was  rising — a  belated 
cheer,  because  his  words  had  set  them  all  to  thinking 
and  to  observing.  From  the  left  of  the  crowd,  a  dozen 
yards  away  from  the  platform,  came  a  stone  heavily 
rather  than  swiftly  flung,  as  from  an  impeded  hand.  In 
full  view  of  all  it  curved  across  the  front  of  the  plat 
form  and  struck  Victor  Dorn  full  in  the  side  of  the  head. 
He  threw  up  his  hands. 

"Boys — remember!"  he  shouted  with  a  terrible  en 
ergy — then,  he  staggered  forward  and  fell  from  the 
platform  into  the  crowd. 

The  stone  was  a  signal.  As  it  flew,  into  the  crowd 
from  every  direction  the  Beech  Hollow  gangs  tore  their 

200 


THE    CONFLICT 


way,  yelling  and  cursing  and  striking  out  right  and  left 
— trampling  children,  knocking  down  women,  pouring 
out  the  foulest  insults.  The  street  lamps  all  round 
Market  Square  went  out,  the  torches  on  the  platform 
were  torn  down  and  extinguished.  And  in  a  dimness 
almost  pitch  dark  a  riot  that  involved  that  whole  mass 
of  people  raged  hideously.  Yells  and  screams  and 
groans,  the  shrieks  of  women,  the  piteous  appeals  of 
children — benches  torn  up  for  weapons — mad  slashing 
about — snarls  and  singings  of  pain-stricken  groups — 
then  police  whistles,  revolvers  fired  in  the  air,  and  the 
quick,  regular  tramp  of  disciplined  forces.  The  police 
— strangely  ready,  strangely  inactive  until  the  mischief 
had  all  been  done — entered  the  square  from  the  north 
and,  forming  a  double  line  across  it  from  east  to  west, 
swept  it  slowly  clean.  The  fighting  ended  as  abruptly 
as  it  had  begun.  Twenty  minutes  after  the  flight  of 
that  stone,  the  square  was  empty  save  a  group  of  per 
haps  fifty  men  and  women  formed  about  Victor  Dorn's 
body  in  the  shelter  of  the  platform. 

Selma  Gordon  was  holding  his  head.  Jane  Hastings 
and  Ellen  Clearwater  were  kneeling  beside  him,  and 
Jane  was  wiping  his  face  with  a  handkerchief  wet  with 
whisky  from  the  flask  of  the  man  who  had  escorted  them 
there. 

"He  is  only  stunned,"  said  Selma.  "I  can  feel  the 
beat  of  his  blood.  He  is  only  stunned." 

A  doctor  came,  got  down  on  his  knees,  made  a  rapid 
examination  with  expert  hands.  As  he  felt,  one  of  the 

201 


THE    CONFLICT 


relighted  torches  suddenly  lit  up  Victor's  face  and 
the  faces  of  those  bending  over  him. 

"He  is  only  stunned,  Doctor,"  said  Selma. 

"I  think  so,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"We  left  our  carriage  in  the  side  street  just  over 
there,"  said  Jane  Hastings.  "It  will  take  him  to  the 
hospital." 

"No — home,"  said  Selma,  who  was  calm.  "He  must 
be  taken  home." 

"The  hospital  is  the  place  for  him,"  said  the  doc 
tor. 

"No — home,"  repeated  Selma.  She  glanced  at  the 
men  standing  round.  "Tom — Henry — and  you,  Ed — 
help  me  lift  him." 

"Please,  Selma,"  whispered  Jane.  "Let  him  be  taken 
to  the  hospital." 

"Among  our  enemies  ?"  said  Selma  with  a  strange  and 
terrible  little  laugh.  "Oh,  no.  After  this,  we  trust 
no  one.  They  may  have  arranged  to  finish  this  night's 
work  there.  He  goes  home — doesn't  he,  boys  ?" 

"That's  right,  Miss  Gordon,"  replied  one  of  them. 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Here's  where  I 
drop  the  case,"  said  he. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,"  cried  Jane  imperiously.  "I 
am  Jane  Hastings — Martin  Hastings'  daughter.  You 
will  come  with  us,  please — or  I  shall  see  to  it  that  you 
are  not  let  off  easily  for  such  a  shameful  neglect  of 
duty." 

"Let  him  go,  Jane,"  said  Selma.  "There  will  be  a 
202 


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doctor  waiting.  And  he  is  only  stunned.  Come,  boys — 
lift  him  up." 

They  laid  him  on  a  bench  top,  softened  with  the  coats 
of  his  followers.  At  the  carriage,  standing  in  Farwell 
Street,  they  laid  him  across  the  two  seats.  Selma  got  in 
with  him.  Tom  Colman  climbed  to  the  box  beside  the 
coachman.  Jane  and  Miss  Clearwater,  their  escorts  and 
about  a  score  of  the  Leaguers  followed  on  foot.  As  the 
little  procession  turned  into  Warner  Street  it  was 
stopped  by  a  policeman. 

"Can't  go  down  this  way,"  he  said. 

"It's  Mr.  Dorn.  We're  taking  him  home.  He  was 
hurt,"  explained  Colman. 

"Fire  lines.  Street's  closed,"  said  the  policeman 
gruffly. 

Selma  thrust  her  head  out.  "We  must  get  him 
home " 

"House  across  the  street  burning — and  probably  his 
house,  too,"  cut  in  the  policeman.  "He's  been  raising 
hell — he  has.  But  it's  coming  home  to  him  at  last.  Take 
him  to  the  hospital." 

"Jane,"  cried  Selma,  "make  this  man  pass  us !" 

Jane  faced  the  policeman,  explained  who  she  was.  He 
became  humbly  civil  at  once.  "I've  just  told  her, 
ma'am,"  said  he,  "that  his  house  is  burning.  The  mob's 
gutting  the  New  Day  office  and  setting  fire  to  every 
thing." 

"My  house  is  in  the  next  street,"  said  Colman. 
"Drive  there.  Some  of  you  people  get  Dr.  Charlton — 

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and  everything.  Get  busy.  Whip  up,  driver.  Here, 
give  me  the  lines !" 

Thus,  within  five  minutes,  Victor  was  lying  upon  a 
couch  in  the  parlor  of  Colman's  cottage,  and  within  ten 
minutes  Dr.  Charlton  was  beside  him  and  was  at  work. 
Selma  and  Jane  and  Mrs.  Colman  were  in  the  room. 
The  others — a  steadily  increasing  crowd — were  on  the 
steps  outside,  in  the  front  yard,  were  filling  the  narrow 
street.  Colman  had  organized  fifty  Leaguers  into  a 
guard,  to  be  ready  for  any  emergencies.  Over  the  tops 
of  the  low  houses  could  be  seen  the  vast  cloud  of  smoke 
from  the  fire ;  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  odors  of  burn 
ing  wood;  faintly  came  sounds  of  engines,  of  jubilant 
drunken  shouts. 

"A  fracture  of  the  skull  and  of  the  jaw-bone.  Not 
necessarily  serious,"  was  Dr.  Charlton's  verdict. 

The  young  man,  unconscious,  ghastly  pale,  with  his 
thick  hair  mussed  about  his  brow  and  on  the  right  side 
clotted  with  blood,  lay  breathing  heavily.  Ellen  Clear- 
water  came  in  and  Mrs.  Colman  whispered  to  her  the 
doctor's  cheering  statement.  She  went  to  Jane  and  said 
in  an  undertone : 

"We  can  go  now,  Jane.     Come  on." 

Jane  seemed  not  to  hear.  She  was  regarding  the  face 
of  the  young  man  on  the  couch. 

Ellen  touched  her  arm.  "We're  intruding  on  these 
people,"  she  whispered.  "Let's  go.  We've  done  all  we 
can." 

Selma  did  not  hear,  but  she  saw  and  understood. 
204, 


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"Yes — you'd  better  go,  Jane,"  she  said.  "Mrs.  Colman 
and  I  will  do  everything  that's  necessary." 

Jane  did  not  heed.  She  advanced  a  step  nearer  the 
couch.  "You  are  sure,  doctor?"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
sounded  unnatural. 

"Yes,  miss "  He  glanced  at  her  face.  "Yes, 

Miss  Hastings.  He'll  be  out  in  less  than  ten  days,  as 
good  as  ever.  It's  a  very  simple  affair." 

Jane  glanced  round.  "Is  there  a  telephone?  I  wish 
to  send  for  Dr.  Alban." 

"I'd  be  glad  to  see  him,"  said  Dr.  Charlton.  "But 
I  assure  you  it's  unnecessary." 

"We  don't  want  Dr.  Alban,"  said  Selma  curtly.  "Go 
home,  Jane,  and  let  us  alone." 

"I  shall  go  bring  Dr.  Alban,"  said  Jane. 

Selma  took  her  by  the  arm  and  compelled  her  into  the 
hall,  and  closed  the  door  into  the  room  where  Victor 
lay.  "You  must  go  home,  Jane,"  she  said  quietly.  "We 
know  what  to  do  with  our  leader.  And  we  could  not 
allow  Dr.  Alban  here." 

"Victor  must  have  the  best,"  said  Jane. 

She  and  Selma  looked  at  each  other,  and  Selma  un 
derstood. 

"He  has  the  best,"  said  she,  gentle  with  an  effort. 

"Dr.  Alban  is  the  best,"  said  Jane. 

"The  most  fashionable,"  said  Selma.  "Not  the  best.'* 
With  restraint,  "Go  home.  Let  us  alone.  This  is  no 
place  for  you — for  Martin  Hastings'  daughter." 

Jane,  looking  and  acting  like  one  in  a  trance,  tried 
14  205 


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to  push  past  her  and  reenter  the  room.  Selma  stood 
firm.  She  said:  "If  you  do  not  go  I  shall  have  these 
men  take  you  to  your  carriage.  You  do  not  know 
what  you  are  doing." 

Jane  looked  at  her.     "I  love  him,"  she  said. 

"So  do  we,"  said  Selma.  "And  he  belongs  to  us. 
You  must  go.  Come !"  She  seized  her  by  the  arm,  and 
beckoning  one  of  the  waiting  Leaguers  to  her  assistance 
she  pushed  her  quietly  but  relentlessly  along  the  hall, 
out  of  the  house,  out  of  the  yard  and  into  the  carriage. 
Then  she  closed  the  door,  while  Jane  sank  back  against 
the  cushions. 

"Yes,  he  belongs  to  you,"  said  Jane ;  "but  I  love  him. 
Oh,  Selma!" 

Selma  suddenly  burst  into  tears.  "Go,  Jane,  dear. 
You  must  go,"  she  cried. 

"At  least  I'll  wait  here  until — until  they  are  sure," 
said  Jane.  "You  can't  refuse  me  that,  Selma." 

"But  they  are  sure,"  said  Selma.  "You  must  go  with 
your  friends.  Here  they  come." 

When  Ellen  Clearwater  and  Joe  Wetherbe — the  sec 
ond  son  of  the  chief  owner  of  the  First  National — 
reached  the  curb,  Selma  said  to  Wetherbe: 

"Please  stand  aside.  I've  something  to  say  to  this 
lady.'' 

When  Wetherbe  had  withdrawn,  she  said:  "Miss 
Hastings  is — not  quite  herself.  You  had  better  take 
her  home  alone." 

Jane  leaned  from  the  open  carriage  window.  "El- 
206 


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len,"  said  she,  "I  am  going  to  stay  here  until  Victor  re 
covers  consciousness,  and  I  am  sure." 

"He  has  just  come  around,"  said  Ellen.  "He  is  cer 
tain  to  get  well.  His  mind  is  clear." 

"I  must  see  for  myself,"  cried  Jane. 

Selma  was  preventing  her  leaving  the  carriage  when 
Ellen  quietly  interfered  with  a  significant  look  for 
Selma.  "Jane,"  she  said,  "you  can't  go  in.  The  doctor 
has  just  put  every  one  out  but  his  assistant  and  a  nurse 
that  has  come." 

Jane  hesitated,  drew  back  into  the  corner  of  the  car 
riage.  "Tell  Mr.  Wetherbe  to  go  his  own  way,"  said 
Ellen  aside  to  Selma,  and  she  got  in  beside  Jane. 

"To  Mr.  Hastings',"  said  Selma  to  the  driver.  The 
carriage  drove  away. 

She  gave  Ellen's  message  to  Wetherbe  and  returned 
to  the  house.  Victor  was  still  unconscious ;  he  did  not 
come  to  himself  until  toward  daylight.  And  then  it  was 
clear  to  them  all  that  Dr.  Charlton's  encouraging  diag 
nosis  was  correct. 

Public  opinion  in  Remsen  City  was  publicly  articulate 
by  means  of  three  daily  newspapers — the  Pioneer,  the 
Star,  and  the  Free  Press.  The  Star  and  the  Free  Press 
were  owned  by  the  same  group  of  capitalists  who  con 
trolled  the  gas  company  and  the  water  works.  The 
Pioneer  was  owned  by  the  traction  interests.  Both 
groups  of  capitalists  were  jointly  interested  in  the  rail 
ways,  the  banks  and  in  the  principal  factories.  The 
Pioneer  was  Republican,  was  regarded  as  the  organ  of 

207 


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Dick  Kelly.  The  Star  was  Democratic,  spoke  less  cor 
dially  of  Kelly  and  always  called  for  House,  Mr.  House, 
or  Joseph  House,  Esquire.  The  Free  Press  posed  as  in 
dependent  with  Democratic  leanings.  It  indulged  in 
admirable  essays  against  corruption,  gang  rule  and 
bossism.  But  it  was  never  specific  and  during  cam 
paigns  was  meek  and  mild.  For  nearly  a  dozen  years 
there  had  not  been  a  word  of  truth  upon  any  subject 
important  to  the  people  of  Remsen  City  in  the  columns 
of  any  of  the  three.  During  wars  between  rival  groups 
of  capitalists  a  half-truth  was  now  and  then  timidly 
uttered,  but  never  a  word  of  "loose  talk,"  of  "anarchy," 
of  anything  but  the  entirely  "safe,  sane  and  conserva 
tive." 

Thus,  any  one  who  might  have  witnessed  the  scenes 
in  Market  Square  on  Thursday  evening  would  have 
been  not  a  little  astonished  to  read  the  accounts  pre 
sented  the  next  day  by  the  three  newspapers.  Accord 
ing  to  all  three  the  Workingmen's  League,  long  a  men 
ace  to  the  public  peace,  had  at  last  brought  upon  Rem 
sen  City  the  shame  of  a  riot  in  which  two  men,  a  woman 
and  four  children  had  lost  their  lives  and  more  than  a 
hundred,  "including  the  notorious  Victor  Dorn,"  had 
been  injured.  And  after  the  riot  the  part  of  the  mob 
that  was  hostile  to  "the  Dorn  gang"  had  swept  down 
upon  the  office  of  the  New  Day,  had  wrecked  it,  and 
had  set  fire  to  the  building,  with  the  result  that  five 
houses  were  burned  before  the  flames  could  be  put  out. 
The  Free  Press  published,  as  a  mere  rumor,  that  the  im- 

208 


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mediate  cause  of  the  outbreak  had  been  an  impending 
"scurrilous  attack"  in  the  New  Day  upon  one  of  the 
political  gangs  of  the  slums  and  its  leader.  The  Asso 
ciated  Press,  sending  forth  an  account  of  the  riot  to  the 
entire  country,  represented  it  as  a  fight  between  rival 
gangs  of  workmen  precipitated  by  the  insults  and  men 
aces  of  a  "socialistic  party  led  by  a  young  operator 
named  Dorn."  Dorn's  faction  had  aroused  in  the  mass 
of  the  workingmen  a  fear  that  this  spread  of  "socialis 
tic  and  anarchistic  ideas"  would  cause  a  general  shut 
down  of  factories  and  a  flight  of  the  capital  that  was 
"giving  employment  to  labor." 

A  version  of  the  causes  and  the  events,  somewhat 
nearer  the  truth,  was  talked  about  Remsen  City.  But 
all  the  respectable  classes  were  well  content  with  what 
their  newspapers  printed.  And,  while  some  broad- 
minded  respectabilities  spoke  of  the  affair  as  an  out 
rage,  none  of  them  was  disposed  to  think  that  any  real 
wrong  had  been  done.  Victor  Dorn  and  his  crowd  of 
revolutionists  had  got,  after  all,  only  their  deserts. 

After  forty-eight  hours  of  careful  study  of  public 
opinion,  Dick  Kelly  decided  that  Remsen  City  was  tak 
ing  the  dose  as  he  had  anticipated.  He  felt  emboldened 
to  proceed  to  his  final  move  in  the  campaign  against 
"anarchy"  in  his  beloved  city.  On  the  second  morning 
after  the  riot,  all  three  newspapers  published  double- 
headed  editorials  calling  upon  the  authorities  to  safe 
guard  the  community  against  another  such  degrading 
and  dangerous  upheaval.  "It  is  time  that  the  distinc- 

209 


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tion  between  liberty  and  license  be  sharply  drawn." 
After  editorials  in  this  vein  had  been  repeated  for  sev 
eral  days,  after  sundry  bodies  of  eminently  respectable 
citizens — the  Merchants'  Association,  the  Taxpayers' 
League,  the  Chamber  of  Commerce — had  passed  indig 
nant  and  appealing  resolutions,  after  two  priests,  a 
clergyman  and  four  preachers  had  sermonized  against 
"the  leniency  of  constituted  authority  with  criminal  an 
archy,"  Mr.  Kelly  had  the  City  Attorney  go  before 
Judge  Lansing  and  ask  for  an  injunction. 

Judge  Lansing  promptly  granted  the  injunction. 
The  New  Day  was  enjoined  from  appearing.  The 
Workingmen's  League  was  enjoined  from  holding  meet 
ings. 

Then  the  County  Prosecutor,  also  a  henchman  of 
Kelly's,  secured  from  the  Grand  Jury — composed  of 
farmers,  merchants  and  owners  of  factories — indict 
ments  against  Thomas  Colman  and  Victor  Dorn  for  in 
citing  a  riot. 

Meanwhile  Victor  Dorn  was  rapidly  recovering.  With 
rare  restraint  young  Dr.  Charlton  did  not  fuss  and  fret 
and  meddle,  did  not  hamper  nature  with  his  blundering 
efforts  to  assist,  did  not  stuff  "nourishment"  into  his 
patient  to  decay  and  to  produce  poisonous  blood.  He 
let  the  young  man's  superb  vitality  work  the  inevitable 
and  speedy  cure.  Thus,,  wounds  and  shocks,  that  have 
often  been  mistreated  by  doctors  into  mortal,  passed  so 
quickly  that  only  Selma  Gordon  and  the  doctor  himself 
realized  how  grave  Victor's  case  had  been.  The  day  he 

210 


THE   CONFLICT 


was  indicted — just  a  week  from  the  riot — he  was  sitting 
up  and  was  talking  freely. 

"Won't  it  set  him  back  if  I  tell  him  all  that  has  oc 
curred?"  said  Selma. 

"Talk  to  him  as  you  would  to  me,"  replied  Charlton. 
"He  is  a  sensible  man.  I've  already  told  him  pretty 
much  everything.  It  has  kept  him  from  fretting,  to  be 
able  to  lie  there  quietly  and  make  his  plans." 

Had  you  looked  in  upon  Victor  and  Selma,  in  Col- 
man's  little  transformed  parlor,  you  would  rather  have 
thought  Selma  the  invalid.  The  man  in  the  bed  was 
pale  and  thin  of  face,  but  his  eyes  had  the  expression 
of  health  and  of  hope.  Selma  had  great  circles  under 
her  eyes  and  her  expression  was  despair  struggling  to 
conceal  itself.  Those  indictments,  those  injunctions — 
how  powerful  the  enemy  were!  How  could  such  an 
enemy,  aroused  new  and  inflexibly  resolved,  be  combat- 
ted? — especially  when  one  had  no  money,  no  way  of 
reaching  the  people,  no  chance  to  organize. 

"Dr.  Charlton  has  told  you?"  said  Selma. 

"Day  before  yesterday,"  replied  Victor.  "Why  do 
you  look  so  down-in-the-mouth,  Selma?" 

"It  isn't  easy  to  be  cheerful,  with  you  ill  and  the 
paper  destroyed,"  replied  she. 

"But  I'm  not  ill,  and  the  paper  isn't  destroyed,"  said 
Victor,  "Never  were  either  I  or  it  doing  such  good 
work  as  now."  His  eyes  were  dancing.  "What  more 
could  one  ask  than  to  have  such  stupid  enemies  as  we've 
got?" 

211 


THE    CONFLICT 


Selma  did  not  lift  her  eyes.  To  her  those  enemies 
seemed  anything  but  stupid.  Had  they  not  ruined  the 
League? 

"I  see  you  don't  understand,"  pursued  Victor.  "No 
matter.  You'll  wear  a  very  different  face  two  weeks 
from  now." 

"But,"  said  Selma,  "exactly  what  you  said  you  were 
afraid  of  has  occurred.  And  now  you  say  you're  glad 
of  it." 

"I  told  you  I  was  afraid  Dick  Kelly  would  make  the 
one  move  that  could  destroy  us." 

"But  he  has  !"  cried  Selma. 

Victor  smiled.    "No,  indeed !"  replied  he. 

"What  worse  could  he  have  done?" 

"I'll  not  tell  you,"  said  Victor.  "I'd  not  venture  to 
say  aloud  such  a  dangerous  thing  as  what  I'd  have  done 
if  I  had  been  in  his  place.  Instead  of  doing  that,  he 
made  us.  We  shall  win  this  fall's  election." 

Selma  lifted  her  head  with  a  sudden  gesture  of  hope. 
She  had  unbounded  confidence  in  Victor  Dorn,  and  his 
tone  was  the  tone  of  absolute  confidence. 

"I  had  calculated  on  winning  in  five  years.  I  had  left 
the  brutal  stupidity  of  our  friend  Kelly  out  of  account." 

"Then  you  see  how  you  can  hold  meetings  and  start 
up  the  paper?" 

"I  don't  want  to  do  either,"  said  Victor.  "I  want 
those  injunctions  to  stand.  Those  fools  have  done  at 
a  stroke  what  we  couldn't  have  done  in  years.  They 
have  united  the  working  class.  They — the  few — have 

212 


THE   CONFLICT 


forbidden  us,  the  many,  to  unite  or  to  speak.  If  those 
injunctions  hold  for  a  month,  nothing  could  stop  our 
winning  this  fall.  .  %  >  I  can't  understand  how 
Dick  Kelly  could  be  so  stupid.  Five  years  ago  these 
moves  of  his  would  have  been  bad  for  us — yes,  even  three 
years  ago.  But  we've  got  too  strong — and  he  doesn't 
realize !  Selma,  when  you  want  to  win,  always  pray  that 
your  opponent  will  underestimate  you." 

"I  still  don't  understand,"  said  Selma.  "None  of  us 
does.  You  must  explain  to  me,  so  that  I'll  know  what 
to  do." 

"Do  nothing,"  said  Victor.  "I  shall  be  out  a  week 
from  to-day.  I  shall  not  go  into  the  streets  until  I  not 
only  am  well  but  look  well." 

"They  arrested  Tom  Colman  to-day,"  said  Selma. 
"But  they  put  the  case  over  until  you'd  be  able  to  plead 
at  the  same  time." 

"That's  right,"  said  Victor.  "They  are  playing  into 
our  hands !"  And  he  laughed  as  heartily  as  his  bandages 
would  permit. 

"Oh,  I  don't  understand — I  don't  understand  at  all !" 
cried  Selma.  "Maybe  you  are  all  wrong  about  it." 

"I  was  never  more  certain  in  my  life,"  replied  Victor. 
"Stop  worrying  about  it,  my  dear."  And  he  patted 
her  hands  gently  as  they  lay  folded  in  her  lap.  "I  want 
you — all  our  people — to  go  round  looking  sad  these  next 
few  days.  I  want  Dick  Kelly  to  feel  that  he  is  on  the 
right  track." 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Colman 
213 


THE   CONFLICT 


entered.  She  had  been  a  school  teacher,  and  of  all  the 
occupations  there  is  no  other  that  leaves  such  plain, 
such  indelible  traces  upon  manner,  mind  and  soul.  Said 
she: 

"Miss  Jane  Hastings  is  outside  in  her  carriage — and 
wants  to  know  if  she  can  see  you." 

Selma  frowned.  Victor  said  with  alacrity:  "Cer 
tainly.  Bring  her  in,  Mrs.  Colman." 

Selma  rose.  "Wait  until  I  can  get  out  of  the  way," 
she  cried. 

"Sit  down,  and  sit  still,"  commanded  Victor. 

Selma  continued  to  move  toward  the  door.  "No — I 
don't  wish  to  see  her,"  she  said. 

Victor  chagrined  her  by  acquiescing  without  another 
word.  "You'll  look  in  after  supper  ?"  he  asked. 

"If  you  want  me,"  said  the  girl. 

"Come  back  here,"  said  Victor.  "Wait,  Mrs.  Col 
man."  When  Selma  was  standing  by  the  bed  he  took 
her  hand.  "Selma,"  he  said,  "don't  let  these  things 
upset  you.  Believe  me,  I'm  right.  Can't  you  trust 
me?" 

Selma  had  the  look  of  a  wild  creature  detained  against 
its  will.  "I'm  not  worried  about  the  party — and  the 
paper,"  she  burst  out.  "I'm  worried  about  you." 

"But  I'm  all  right.  Can't  you  see  I'm  almost 
well?" 

Selma  drew  her  hand  away.  "I'll  be  back  about  half- 
past  seven,"  she  said,  and  bolted  from  the  room. 

Victor's  good-natured,  merry  smile  followed  her  to 
214 


THE   CONFLICT 


the  door.  When  the  sound  of  her  retreat  by  way  of 
the  rear  of  the  house  was  dying  away  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Colman : 

"Now — bring  in  the  young  lady.  And  please  warn 
her  that  she  must  stay  at  most  only  half  an  hour  by  that 
clock  over  there  on  the  mantel." 

Every  day  Jane  had  been  coming  to  inquire,  had  been 
bringing  or  sending  flowers  and  fruit — which,  by  Dr. 
Charlton's  orders,  were  not  supposed  to  enter  the  in 
valid's  presence.  Latterly  she  had  been  asking  to  see 
Victor;  she  was  surprised  when  Mrs.  Colman  returned 
with  leave  for  her  to  enter.  Said  Mrs.  Colman: 

"He's  alone.  Miss  Gordon  has  just  gone.  You  will 
see  a  clock  on  the  mantel  in  his  room.  You  must  not 
stay  longer  than  half  an  hour." 

"I  shall  be  very  careful  what  I  say,"  said  Jane. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  bother,"  said  the  ex-school  teacher. 
"Dr.  Charlton  doesn't  believe  in  sick-room  atmosphere. 
You  must  treat  Mr.  Dorn  exactly  as  you  would  a  well 
person.  If  you're  going  to  take  on,  or  put  on,  you'd 
better  not  go  in  at  all." 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Jane,  rather  haughtily,  for  she 
did  not  like  Mrs.  Colman's  simple  and  direct  manner. 
She  was  used  to  being  treated  with  deference,  especially 
by  the  women  of  Mrs.  Colman's  class ;  and  while  she  dis 
approved  of  deference  in  theory,  in  practice  she  craved 
it,  and  expected  it,  and  was  irritated  if  she  did  not  get 
it.  But,  as  she  realized  how  unattractive  this  weakness 
was,  she  usually  took  perhaps  more  pains  than  does  the 

215 


THE   CONFLICT 


average  person  to  conceal  it.  That  day  her  nerves 
were  too  tense  for  petty  precautions.  However,  Mrs. 
Colman  was  too  busy  inspecting  the  details  of  Miss 
Hastings'  toilet  to  note  Miss  Hastings'  manners. 

Jane's  nervousness  vanished  the  instant  she  was  in  the 
doorway  of  the  parlor  with  Victor  Dorn  looking  at  her 
in  that  splendidly  simple  and  natural  way  of  his.  "So 
glad  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "What  a  delightful  perfume 
you  bring  with  you.  I've  noticed  it  before.  I  know  it 
isn't  flowers,  but  it  smells  like  flowers.  With  most 
perfumes  you  can  smell  through  the  perfume  to  some 
thing  that's  the  very  reverse  of  sweet." 

They  were  shaking  hands.  She  said:  "That  nice 
woman  who  let  me  in  cautioned  me  not  to  put  on  a  sick 
room  manner  or  indulge  in  sick-room  talk.  It  was  quite 
unnecessary.  You're  looking  fine." 

"Ain't  I,  though?"  exclaimed  Victor.  "I've  never 
been  so  comfortable.  Just  weak  enough  to  like  being 
waited  on.  You  were  very  good  to  me  the  night  that 
stone  knocked  me  over.  I  want  to  thank  you,  but  I 

don't  know  how.  And  the  flowers,  and  the  fruit-; 

You  have  been  so  kind." 

"I  could  do  very  little,"  said  Jane,  blushing  and  fal 
tering.  "And  I  wanted  to  do — everything."  Suddenly 
all  energy,  "Oh,  Mr.  Dorn,  I  heard  and  saw  it  all.  It 
was — infamous!  And  the  lying  newspapers — and  all 
the  people  I  meet  socially.  They  keep  me  in  a  constant 
rage." 

Victor  was  smiling  gayly.  "The  fortunes  of  war," 
216 


THE   CONFLICT 


said  he.  "I  expect  nothing  else.  If  they  fought  fair 
they  couldn't  fight  at  all.  We,  on  this  side  of  the  strug 
gle,  can  afford  to  be  generous  and  tolerant.  They  are 
fighting  the  losing  battle;  they're  trying  to  hold  on  to 
the  past,  and  of  course  it's  slipping  from  them  inch  by 
inch.  But  we — we  are  in  step  with  the  march  of 
events." 

When  she  was  with  him  Jane  felt  that  his  cause  was 
hers,  also — was  the  only  cause.  "When  do  you  begin 
publishing  your  paper  again?"  she  asked.  "As  soon 
as  you  are  sitting  up?" 

"Not  for  a  month  or  so,"  replied  he.  "Not  until 
after  the  election." 

"Oh,  I  forgot  about  that  injunction.  You  think  that< 
as  soon  as  Davy  Hull's  crowd  is  in  they  will  let  you  be 
gin  again  ?" 

He  hesitated.  "Not  exactly  that,"  he  said.  "But 
after  the  election  there  will  be  a  change." 

Her  eyes  flashed.  "And  they  have  indicted  you!  I 
heard  the  newsboys  crying  it  and  stopped  and  bought 
a  paper.  But  I  shall  do  something  about  that.  I  am 
going  straight  from  here  to  father.  Ellen  Clearwater 
and  I  and  Joe  Wetherbe  saw.  And  Ellen  and  I  will 
testify  if  it's  necessary — and  will  make  Joe  tell  the 
truth.  Do  you  know,  he  actually  had  the  impudence 
to  try  to  persuade  Ellen  and  me  the  next  day  that  we 
saw  what  the  papers  reported  ?" 

"I  believe  it,"  said  Victor.  "So  I  believe  that  Joe  con 
vinced  himself." 

217 


THE   CONFLICT 


"You  are  too  charitable,"  replied  Jane.  "He's  afraid 
of  his  father." 

"Miss  Hastings,"  said  Victor,  "you  suggested  a  mo 
ment  ago  that  you  would  influence  your  father  to  in 
terfere  in  this  matter  of  the  indictment." 

"I'll  promise  you  now  that  he  will  have  it  stopped," 
said  Jane. 

"You  want  to  help  the  cause,  don't  you?" 

Jane's  eyes  shifted,  a  little  color  came  into  her  cheeks. 
"The  cause — and  you,"  she  said. 

"Very  well,"  said  Victor.  "Then  you  will  not  inter 
fere.  And  if  your  father  talks  of  helping  me  you  will 
discourage  him  all  you  can." 

"You  are  saying  that  out  of  consideration  for  me. 
You're  afraid  I  will  quarrel  with  my  father." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said  Victor.  "I  can't 
tell  you  what  I  have  in  mind.  But  I'll  have  to  say  this 
much — that  if  you  did  anything  to  hinder  those  fellows 
from  carrying  out  their  plans  against  me  and  against 
the  League  to  the  uttermost  you'd  be  doing  harm  in 
stead  of  good." 

"But  they  may  send  you  to  jail.  .,  .  >  .  No,  I  for 
got.  You  can  give  bail." 

Victor's  eyes  had  a  quizzical  expression.  "Yes,  I  could 
give  bail.  But  even  if  I  don't  give  bail,  Miss  Hastings 
— even  if  I  am  sent  to  jail — Colman  and  I — still  you 
must  not  interfere.  You  promise  me  ?" 

Jane  hesitated.  "I  can't  promise,"  she  finally 
said. 

218 


THE   CONFLICT 


"You  must,"  said  Victor.  "You'll  make  a  mess  of  my 
plans,  if  you  don't." 

"You  mean  that?" 

"I  mean  that.  Your  intentions  are  good.  But  you 
would  only  do  mischief — serious  mischief." 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Said  Jane :  "I  promise — 
on  one  condition." 

"Yes?" 

"That  if  you  should  change  your  mind  and  should 
want  my  help,  you'd  promptly  and  freely  ask  for 
it." 

"I  agree  to  that,"  said  Victor.  "Now,  let's  get  it 
clearly  in  mind.  No  matter  what  is  done  about  me  or 
the  League,  you  promise  not  to  interfere  in  any  way, 
unless  I  ask  you  to." 

Again  Jane  hesitated.  "No  matter  what  they  do?" 
she  pleaded. 

"No  matter  what  they  do,"  insisted  he. 

Something  in  his  expression  gave  her  a  great  thrill 
of  confidence  in  him,  of  enthusiasm.  "I  promise,"  she 
said.  "You  know  best." 

"Indeed  I  do,"  said  he.    "Thank  you." 

A  moment's  silence,  then  she  exclaimed:  "That  was 
why  you  let  me  in  to-day — because  you  wanted  to  get 
that  promisre  from  me." 

"That  was  one  of  the  reasons,"  confessed  he.  "In 
fact,  it  was  the  chief  reason."  He  smiled  at  her. 
"There's  nothing  I'm  so  afraid  of  as  of  enthusiasm. 
I'm  going  to  be  still  more  cautious  and  exact  another 

219 


THE   CONFLICT 


promise  from  you.  You  must  not  tell  any  one  that 
you  have  promised  not  to  interfere." 

"I  can  easily  promise  that,"  said  Jane. 

"Be  careful,"  warned  Victor.  "A  promise  easily  made 
is  a  promise  easily  forgotten." 

"I  begin  to  understand,"  said  Jane.  "You  want  them 
to  attack  you  as  savagely  as  possible.  And  you  don't 
want  them  to  get  the  slightest  hint  of  your  plan." 

"A  good  guess,"  admitted  Victor.  He  looked  at  her 
gravely.  "Circumstances  have  let  you  farther  into  my 
confidence  than  any  one  else  is.  I  hope  you  will  not 
abuse  it." 

"You  can  rely  upon  me,"  said  Jane.  "I  want  your 
friendship  and  your  respect  as  I  never  wanted  anything 
in  my  life  before.  I'm  not  afraid  to  say  these  things 
to  you,  for  I  know  I'll  not  be  misunderstood." 

Victor's  smile  thrilled  her  again.  "You  were  born 
one  of  us,"  he  said.  "I  felt  it  the  first  time  we  talked 
together." 

"Yes.  I  do  want  to  be  somebody,"  replied  the  girl. 
"I  can't  content  myself  in  a  life  of  silly  routine  .  .  . 
can't  do  things  that  have  no  purpose,  no  result.  And 
if  it  wasn't  for  my  father  I'd  come  out  openly  for  the 
things  I  believe  in.  But  I've  got  to  think  of  him.  It 
may  be  a  weakness,  but  I  couldn't  overcome  it.  As  long 
as  my  father  lives  I'll  do  nothing  that  would  grieve  him. 
Do  you  despise  me  for  that?" 

"I  don't  despise  anybody  for  anything,"  said  Victor. 
"In  your  place  I  should  put  my  father  first."  He 

220 


THE   CONFLICT 


laughed.  "In  your  place  I'd  probably  be  a  Davy  Hull 
or  worse.  I  try  never  to  forget  that  I  owe  everything 
to  the  circumstances  in  which  I  was  born  and  brought 
up.  FTC  simply  got  the  ideas  of  my  class,  and  it's  an 
accident  that  I  am  of  the  class  to  which  the  future  be 
longs — the  working  class  that  will  possess  the  earth  as 
soon  as  it  has  intelligence  enough  to  enter  into  its  king 
dom." 

"But,"  pursued  Jane,  returning  to  herself,  "I  don't 
intend  to  be  altogether  useless.  I  can  do  something  and 
he — my  father,  I  mean — needn't  know.  Do  you  think 
that  is  dreadful?" 

"I  don't  like  it,"  said  Victor.  But  he  said  it  in  such 
a  way  that  she  did  not  feel  rebuked  or  even  judged. 

"Nor  do  I,"  said  she.  "I'd  rather  lead  the  life  I  wish 
to  lead — say  the  things  I  believe — do  the  things  I  believe 
in — all  openly.  But  I  can't.  And  all  I  can  do  is  to 
spend  the  income  of  my  money  my  mother  left  me — 
spend  it  as  I  please."  With  a  quick  embarrassed  ges 
ture  she  took  an  envelope  from  a  small  bag  in  which  she 
was  carrying  it.  "There's  some  of  it,"  she  said.  "I 
want  to  give  that  to  your  campaign  fund.  You  are  free 
to  use  it  in  any  way  you  please — any  way,  for  every 
thing  you  are  and  do  is  your  cause." 

Victor  was  lying  motionless,  his  eyes  closed. 

"Don't  refuse,"  she  begged.  "You've  no  right  to  re 
fuse." 

A  long  silence,  she  watching  him  uneasily.  At  last  he 
said,  "No — I've  no  right  to  refuse.  If  I  did,  it  would  be 
15  221 


THE   CONFLICT 


from  a  personal  motive.  You  understand  that  when  you 
give  the  League  this  money  you  are  doing  what  your 
father  would  regard  as  an  act  of  personal  treachery  to 
him?" 

"You  don't  think  so,  do  you  ?"  cried  she. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  he  deliberately. 

Her  face  became  deathly  pale,  then  crimson.  She 
thrust  the  envelope  into  the  bag,  closed  it  hastily. 
"Then  I  can't  give  it,"  she  murmured.  "Oh — but  you 
are  hard !" 

"If  you  broke  with  your  father  and  came  with  us — 
and  it  killed  him,  as  it  probably  would,"  Victor  Dorn 
went  on,  "I  should  respect  you — should  regard  you  as  a 
wonderful,  terrible  woman.  I  should  envy  you  having 
•a  heart  strong  enough  to  do  a  thing  so  supremely  right 
and  so  supremely  relentless.  And  I  should  be  glad  you 
were  not  of  my  blood — should  think  you  hardly  human. 
Yet  that  is  what  you  ought  to  do." 

"I  am  not  up  to  it,"  said  Jane. 

"Then  you  mustn't  do  the  other,"  said  Victor.  "We 
need  the  money.  I  am  false  to  the  cause  in  urging  you 
not  to  give  it.  But — I'm  human." 

He  was  looking  away,  an  expression  in  his  eyes  and 
about  his  mouth  that  made  him  handsomer  than  she 
would  have  believed  a  man  could  be.  She  was  looking 
at  him  longingly,  her  beautiful  eyes  swimming.  Her 
lips  were  saying  inaudibly,  "I  love  you — I  love  you." 

"What  did  you  say?"  he  asked,  his  thoughts  return 
ing  from  their  far  journey. 

222 


THE    CONFLICT 


"My  time  is  up,"  she  exclaimed,  rising. 

"There  are  better  ways  of  helping  than  money,"  said 
he,  taking  her  hand.  "And  already  you've  helped  in 
those  ways." 

"May  I  come  again?" 

"Whenever  you  like.  But — what  would  your  father 
say?" 

"Then  you  don't  want  me  to  come  again?" 

"It's  best  not,"  said  he.  "I  wish  fate  had  thrown  us 
on  the  same  side.  But  it  has  put  us  in  opposite  camps — 
and  we  owe  it  to  ourselves  to  submit." 

Their  hands  were  still  clasped.  "You  are  content  to 
have  it  so?"  she  said  sadly. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  cried  he,  dropping  her  hand.  "But  we 
are  helpless." 

"We  can  always  hope,"  said  she  softly. 

On  impulse  she  laid  her  hand  in  light  caress  upon  his 
brow,  then  swiftly  departed.  As  she  stood  in  Mrs.  Col- 
man's  flowery  little  front  yard  and  looked  dazedly 
about,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  away 
from  the  world — away  from  herself — and  was  reluct 
antly  but  inevitably  returning. 


VI 


As  Jane  drove  into  the  grounds  of  the  house  on  the 
hilltop  she  saw  her  father  and  David  Hull  in  a*  obvi 
ously  intimate  and  agitated  conversation  on  Uie  front 
veranda.  She  made  all  haste  to  join  them;  MOT  was 
she  deterred  by  the  reception  she  got — the  reception 
given  to  the  unwelcome  interrupter.  Said  she : 

"You  are  talking  about  those  indictments,  aren't 
you?  Everyone  else  is.  There's  a  group  o*  every 
corner  down  town,  and  people  are  calling  their  views 
to  each  other  from  windows  across  the  streets." 

Davy  glanced  triumphantly  at  her  father.  "I  told 
you  so,"  said  he. 

Old  Hastings  was  rubbing  his  hand  over  his  large, 
bony,  wizened  face  in  the  manner  that  indicates  ex 
treme  perplexity. 

Davy  turned  to  Jane.  "I've  been  trying  to  show 
your  father  what  a  stupid,  dangerous  thing  Dick  Kelly 
has  done.  I  want  him  to  help  me  undo  it.  It  must 
be  undone  or  Victor  Dorn  will  sweep  the  town  on 
election  day." 

Jane's  heart  was  beating  wildly.  She  continued  to 
say  carelessly,  "You  think  so?" 

"Davy's  got  a  bad  attack  of  big  red  eye  to-daj,"  said 
her  father.  "It's  a  habit  young  men  have." 

224 


THE    CONFLICT 


"I'm  right,  Mr.  Hastings,"  cried  Hull.  "And,  fur 
thermore,  you  know  I'm  right,  Jane;  you  saw  that 
riot  the  other  night.  Joe  Wetherbe  told  me  so.  You 
said  that  it  was  an  absolutely  unprovoked  assault  of 
the  gangs  of  Kelly  and  House.  Everyone  in  town 
knows  it  was.  The  middle  and  the  upper  class  people 
are  pretending  to  believe  what  the  papers  printed — 
what  they'd  like  to  believe.  But  they  know  better. 
The  working  people  are  apparently  silent.  They  us 
ually  are  apparently  silent.  But  they  know  the  truth 
— they  are  talking  it  among  themselves.  And  these 
indictments  will  make  Victor  Dorn  a  hero." 

"What  of  it?  What  of  it?"  said  Hastings  impa 
tiently.  "The  working  people  don't  count." 

"Not  as  long  as  we  can  keep  them  divided,"  retorted 
Davy.  "But  if  they  unite " 

And  he  went  on  to  explain  what  he  had  in  mind. 
He  gave  them  an  analysis  of  Remsen  City.  About 
fifty  thousand  inhabitants,  of  whom  about  ten  thou 
sand  were  voters.  These  voters  were  divided  into 
three  classes — upper  class,  with  not  more  than  three 
or  four  hundred  votes,  and  therefore  politically  of  no 
importance  at  the  polls,  though  overwhelmingly  the 
most  influential  in  any  other  way ;  the  middle  class,  the 
big  and  little  merchants,  the  lawyers  and  doctors,  the 
agents  and  firemen  and  so  on,  mustering  in  all  about 
two  thousand  votes;  finally,  the  working  class  with  no 
less  than  eight  thousand  votes  out  of  a  total  of  ten 
ihousand. 

225 


THE   CONFLICT 


"By  bribery  and  cajolery  and  browbeating  and 
appeal  to  religious  prejudice  and  to  fear  of  losing 
jobs — by  all  sorts  of  chicane,"  said  Davy,  "about 
seven  of  these  eight  thousand  votes  are  kept 
divided  between  .the  Republican  or  Kelly  party  and 
the  Democratic  or  House  party.  The  other  ten  or 
twelve  hundred  belong  to  Victor  Dorn's  League.  Now, 
the  seven  thousand  workingmen  voters  who  follow 
Kelly  and  House  like  Victor  Dorn,  like  his  ideas,  are 
with  him  at  heart.  But  they  are  afraid  of  him.  They 
don't  trust  each  other.  Workingmen  despise  the  work- 
ingman  as  an  ignorant  fool." 

"So  he  is,"  said  Hastings. 

"So  he  is,"  agreed  Davy.  "But  Victor  Dorn  has 
about  got  the  workingmen  in  this  town  persuaded 
that  they'd  fare  better  with  Dorn  and  the  League  as 
their  leaders  than  with  Kelly  and  House  as  their 
leaders.  And  if  Kelly  goes  on  to  persecute  Victor 
Dorn,  the  workingmen  will  be  frightened  for  their 
rights  to  free  speech  and  free  assembly.  And  they'll 
unite.  I  appeal  to  you,  Jane — isn't  that  common 
sense?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  politics,"  said  Jane, 
looking  bored.  "You  must  go  in  and  lie  down  before 
dinner,  father.  You  look  tired." 

Hastings  got  ready  to  rise. 

"Just  a  minute,  Mr.  Hastings,"  pleaded  Hull. 
"This  must  be  settled  now — at  once.  I  must  be  in  a 
position  not  only  to  denounce  this  thing,  but  also  to 

220 


THE   CONFLICT 


stop  it.  Not  to-morrow,  but  to-day  ...  so  that 
the  morning  papers  will  have  the  news." 

Jane's  thoughts  were  flying — but  in  circles.  Every 
body  habitually  judges  everybody  else  as  both  more 
and  less  acute  than  he  really  is.  Jane  had  great  re 
spect  for  Davy  as  a  man  of  college  education.  But 
because  he  had  no  sense  of  humor  and  because  he 
abounded  in  lengthy  platitudes  she  had  thought  poorly 
indeed  of  his  abilities.  She  had  been  realizing  her 
mistake  in  these  last  few  minutes.  The  man  who  had 
made  that  analysis  of  politics — an  analysis  which  sud 
denly  enlighted  her  as  to  what  political  power  meant 
and  how  it  was  wielded  everywhere  on  earth  as  well  as 
in  Remsen  City — the  man  was  no  mere  dreamer  and 
theorist.  He  had  seen  the  point  no  less  clearly  than 
had  Victor  Dorn.  But  what  concerned  her,  what  set 
her  to  fluttering,  was  that  he  was  about  to  checkmate 
Victor  Dorn.  What  should  she  say  and  do  to  help 
Victor? 

She  must  get  her  father  away.  She  took  him  gently 
by  the  arm,  kissed  the  top  of  his  head.  "Come  on, 
father,"  she  cried.  "I'll  let  Davy  work  his  excitement 
off  on  me.  You  must  take  care  of  your  health." 

But  Hastings  resisted.  "Wait  a  minute,  Jenny,'* 
said  he.  "I  must  think." 

"You  can  think  lying  down,"  insisted  his  daughter. 
Davy  was  about  to  interpose  again,  but  she  frowned 
him  into  silence. 

"There's  something  in  what  Davy  says,"  persisted 
227 


THE    CONFLICT 


her  father.  "If  that  there  Victor  Dorn  should  carrj 
the  election,  there'd  be  no  living  in  the  same  town  with 
him.  It'd  put  him  away  up  out  of  reach." 

Jane  abruptly  released  her  father's  arm.  She  had 
not  thought  of  that — of  how  much  more  difficult  Victor 
would  be  if  he  won  now.  She  wanted  him  to  win  ulti 
mately — yes,  she  was  sure  she  did.  But — now? 
Wouldn't  that  put  him  beyond  her  reach — beyond  need 
of  her? 

She  said:  "Please  come,  father!"  But  it  was  per 
functory  loyalty  to  Victor.  Her  father  settled  back; 
Davy  Hull  began  afresh,  pressing  home  his  point,  mak 
ing  his  contention  so  clear  that  even  Martin  Hastings' 
i 
prejudice  could  not  blind  him  to  the  truth.  And  Jane 

sat  on  the  arm  of  a  big  veranda  chair  and  listened 
and  made  no  further  effort  to  interfere. 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,  Hull,"  said  the  old  man 
at  last.  "Victor  Dorn's  run  up  agin  the  law  at  last, 
and  he  ought  to  get  the  consequences  good  and  hard. 
But " 

"Mr.  Hastings,"  interrupted  Davy  eagerly — too  fond 
of  talking  to  realize  that  the  old  man  was  agreeing 
with  him,  "Your  daughter  saw — 

"Fiddle-fiddle,"  cried  the  old  man.  "Don't  bring 
sentimental  women  into  this,  Davy.  As  I  was  saying, 
Victor  ought  to  be  punished  for  the  way  he's  been 
stirring  up  idle,  lazy,  ignorant  people  against  the  men 
that  runs  the  community  and  gives  'em  jobs  and  food 
for  their  children.  But  maybe  it  ain't  wise  to  give 

228 


THE   CONFLICT 


him  his  deserts — just  now.  Anyhow,  while  you've  been 
talking  away  like  a  sewing  machine  I've  been  thinking. 
I  don't  see  as  how  it  can  do  any  serious  harm  to  stop 
them  there  indictments." 

"That's  it,  Mr.  Hastings,"  cried  Hull.  "Even  if  I 
do  exaggerate,  as  you  seem  to  think,  still  where's  the 
harm  in  doing  it?" 

"It  looks  as  if  the  respectable  people  were  afraid  of 
the  lower  classes,"  said  Hastings  doubtfully.  "And 
that's  always  bad." 

"But  it  won't  look  that  way,"  replied  Davy,  "if  my 
plan  is  followed." 

"And  what  might  be  your  plan?"  inquired  Hastings. 

"I'm  to  be  the  reform  candidate  for  Mayor.  Your 
son-in-law,  Hugo,  is  to  be  the  reform  candidate  for 
judge.  The  way  to  handle  this  is  for  me  to  come  out 
in  a  strong  statement  denouncing  the  indictments,  and 
the  injunction  against  the  League  and  the  New  Day, 
too.  And  I'll  announce  that  Hugo  Galland  is  trying 
to  join  in  the  fight  against  them  and  that  he  is  as 
indignant  and  as  determined  as  I  am.  Then  early 
to-morrow  morning  we  can  go  before  Judge  Lansing 
and  can  present  arguments,  and  he  will  denounce  the 
other  side  for  misleading  him  as  to  the  facts,  and  will 
quash  the  indictments  and  vacate  the  injunctions." 

Hastings  nodded  reflectively.  "Pretty  good,"  said 
he  with  a  sly  grin.  "And  Davy  Hull  and  my  son-in- 
law  will  be  popular  heroes." 

Davy  reddened.  "Of  course.  I  want  to  get  all  the 
229 


THE   CONFLICT 


advantage  I  can  for  our  party,"  said  he.  "I  don't 
represent  myself.  I  represent  the  party." 

Martin  grinned  more  broadly.  He  who  had  been 
representing  "honest  taxpayers"  and  "innocent  owners" 
of  corrupt  stock  and  bonds  all  his  life  understood 
perfectly.  "It's  hardly  human  to  be  as  unselfish  as 
you  and  I  are,  Davy,"  said  he.  "Well,  I'll  go  in  and 
do  a  little  telephoning.  You  go  ahead  and  draw  up 
your  statement  and  get  it  to  the  papers — and  see 
Hugo."  He  rose,  stood  leaning  on  his  cane,  all  bent 
and  shrivelled  and  dry.  "I  reckon  Judge  Lansing'll 
be  expecting  you  to-morrow  morning."  He  turned  to 
enter  the  house,  halted,  crooked  his  head  round  for  a 
piercing  look  at  young  Hull.  "Don't  go  talking  round 
among  your  friends  about  what  you're  going  to  do,'* 
said  he  sharply.  "Don't  let  nobody  know  until  it's 
done." 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  Davy. 

"I  could  see  you  hurrying  down  to  that  there  Uni 
versity  Club  to  sit  there  and  tell  it  all  to  those  smarties 
that  are  always  blowing  about  what  they're  going  to 
do.  You'll  be  right  smart  of  a  man  some  day,  Davy, 
if  you'll  learn  to  keep  your  mouth  shut." 

Davy  looked  abashed.  He  did  not  know  which  of  his 
many  indiscretions  of  self-glorifying  talkativeness  Mr. 
Hastings  had  immediately  in  mind.  But  he  could  recall 
several,  any  one  of  which  was  justification  for  the  rather 
savage  rebuke — the  more  humiliating  that  Jane  was 
listening.  He  glanced  covertly  at  her.  Perhaps  she 

230 


THE    CONFLICT 


had  not  heard ;  she  was  gazing  into  the  distance  with  a 
strange  expression  upon  her  beautiful  face,  an  expres 
sion  that  fastened  his  attention,  absorbed  though  he 
was  in  his  project  for  his  own  ambitions.  As  her 
father  disappeared,  he  said: 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  Jane?" 

Jane  startled  guiltily.  "I?  Oh — I  don't  know — a 
lot  of  things." 

"Your  look  suggested  that  you  were  having  a — a 
severe  attack  of  conscience,"  said  he,  laughingly.  He 
was  in  soaring  good  humor  now,  for  he  saw  his  way 
clear  to  election. 

"I  was,"  said  Jane,  suddenly  stern.  A  pause,  then 
she  laughed — rather  hollowly.  "Davy,  I  guess  I'm 
almost  as  big  a  fraud  as  you  are.  What  fakirs  we 
human  beings  are? — always  posing  as  doing  for  others 
and  always  doing  for  our  selfish  selves." 

Davy's  face  took  on  its  finest  expression.  "Do  you 
think  it's  altogether  selfishness  for  me  to  fight  for 
Victor  Dorn  and  give  him  a  chance  to  get  out  his 
paper  again — when  he  has  warned  me  that  he  is  going 
to  print  things  that  may  defeat  me?" 

"You  know  he'll  not  print  them  now,"  retorted 
Jane. 

"Indeed  I  don't.     He's  not  so  forbearing." 

"You  know  he'll  not  print  them  now,"  repeated 
Jane.  "He'd  not  be  so  foolish.  Every  one  would 
forget  to  ask  whether  what  he  said  about  you  was 
true  or  false.  They'd  think  only  of  how  ungenerous 

231 


THE   CONFLICT 


and  ungrateful  he  was.  He  wouldn't  be  either.  But 
he'd  seem  to  be — and  that  comes  to  the  same  thing." 
She  glanced  mockingly  at  Hull.  "Isn't  that  your  cal 
culation  ?" 

"You  are  too  cynical  for  a  woman,  Jane,"  said 
Davy.  "It's  not  attractive." 

"To  your  vanity?"  retorted  Jane.  "I  should  think 
not." 

"Well — good-by,"  said  Davy,  taking  his  hat  from 
the  rail.  "I've  got  a  hard  evening's  work  before  me. 
No  time  for  dinner." 

"Another  terrible  sacrifice  for  public  duty,"  mocked 
Jane. 

"You  must  be  frightfully  out  of  humor  with  your 
self,  to  be  girding  at  me  so  savagely,"  said  Davj. 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Mayor." 

"I  shall  be — in  six  weeks." 

Jane's  face  grew  sombre.  "Yes — I  suppose  so,"  said 
she.  "The  people  would  rather  have  one  of  us  than 
one  of  their  own  kind.  They  do  look  up  to  us,  don't 
they?  It's  ridiculous  of  them,  but  they  do.  The  idea 
of  choosing  you,  when  they  might  have  Victor  Dorn." 

"He  isn't  running  for  Mayor,"  objected  Hull.  "The 
League's  candidate  is  Harbinger,  the  builder." 

"No,  it's  Victor  Dorn,"  said  Jane.  "The  best  man 
in  a  party — the  strongest  man — is  always  the  candi 
date  for  all  the  offices.  I  don't  know  much  about  poli 
tics,  but  I've  learned  that  much.  .  .  .  It's  Victor 
Dorn  against — Dick  Kelly — or  Kelly  and  father." 

232 


THE   CONFLICT 


Hull  reddened.  She  had  cut  into  quick.  "You  will 
see  who  is  Mayor  when  I'm  elected,"  said  he  with  all 
his  dignity. 

Jane  laughed  in  the  disagreeably  mocking  way  that 
was  the  climax  of  her  ability  to  be  nasty  when  she  was 
thoroughly  out  of  humor.  "That's  right,  Davy.  De 
ceive  yourself.  It's  far  more  comfortable.  So  long!" 

And  she  went  into  the  house. 

Dary's  conduct  of  the  affair  was  masterly.  He 
showed  those  rare  qualities  of  judgment  and  diplomacy 
that  all  but  insure  a  man  a  distinguished  career.  His 
statement  for  the  press  was  a  model  of  dignity,  of 
restraimed  indignation,  of  good  common  sense.  The 
most  difficult  part  of  his  task  was  getting  Hugo  Gal- 
land  into  condition  for  a  creditable  appearance  in 
court.  In  so  far  as  Hugo's  meagre  intellect,  atrophied 
by  education  and  by  luxury,  permitted  him  to  be  a 
lawyer  at  all,  he  was  of  that  now  common  type  called 
the  corporation  lawyer.  That  is,  for  him  human  beings 
had  ceased  to  exist,  and  of  course  human  rights,  also ; 
the  world  as  viewed  from  the  standpoint  of  law  con 
tained  only  corporations,  only  interests.  Thus,  a  man 
like  Victor  Dorn  was  in  his  view  the  modern  form  of 
the  devil — was  a  combination  of  knave  and  lunatic  who 
had  no  right  to  live  except  in  the  restraint  of  an 
asylum  or  a  jail. 

Fortunately,  while  Hugo  despised  the  "hoi  polloi" 
as  only  a  stupid,  miseducated  snob  can  despise,  he 

233 


THE    CONFLICT 


appreciated  that  they  had  votes  and  so  must  be  con 
ciliated;  and  he  yearned  with  the  snob's  famished 
yearning  for  the  title  and  dignity  of  judge.  Davy 
found  it  impossible  to  convince  him  that  the  injunc 
tions  and  indictments  ought  to  be  attacked  until  he 
had  convinced  him  that  in  no  other  way  could  he 
become  Judge  Galland.  As  Hugo  was  fiercely  preju 
diced  and  densely  stupid  and  reverent  of  the  powers 
of  his  own  intellect,  to  convince  him  was  not  easy.  In 
fact,  Davy  did  not  begin  to  succeed  until  he  began  to 
suggest  that  whoever  appeared  before  Judge  Lansing 
the  next  morning  in  defense  of  free  speech  would  be 
the  Alliance  and  Democratic  and  Republican  candidate 
for  judge,  and  that  if  Hugo  couldn't  see  his  way  clear 
to  appearing  he  might  as  well  give  up  for  the  present 
his  political  ambitions. 

Hugo  came  round.  Davy  left  him  at  one  o'clock  in 
the  morning  and  went  gloomily  home.  He  had  known 
what  a  prejudiced  ass  Galland  was,  how  unfit  he  was 
for  the  office  of  judge;  but  he  had  up  to  that  time 
hidden  the  full  truth  from  himself.  Now,  to  hide  it 
was  impossible.  Hugo  had  fully  exposed  himself  in 
all  his  unfitness  of  the  man  of  narrow  upper  class 
prejudices,  the  man  of  no  instinct  or  enthusiasm  for 
right,  justice  and  liberty.  "Really,  it's  a  crime  to 
nominate  such  a  chap  as  that,"  he  muttered.  "Yet 
we've  got  to  do  it.  How  Selma  Gordon's  eyes  would 
shame  me,  if  she  could  see  me  now !" 

Davy  had  the  familiar  fondness  for  laying  on  the 
234 


THE   CONFLICT 

i 


secret  penitential  scourge — wherewith  we  buy  from 
our  complacent  consciences  license  to  indulge  in  the 
sins  our  appetites  or  ambitions  crave. 

Judge  Lansing — you  have  never  seen  a  man  who 
looked  the  judge  more  ideally  than  did  gray  haired, 
gray  bearded,  open  browed  Robert  Lansing — Judge 
Lansing  was  all  ready  for  his  part  in  the  farce.  He 
knew  Hugo  and  helped  him  over  the  difficult  places 
and  cut  him  short  as  soon  as  he  had  made  enough  of 
his  speech  to  give  an  inkling  of  what  he  was  demand 
ing.  The  Judge  was  persuaded  to  deliver  himself  of  a 
high-minded  and  eloquent  denunciation  of  those  who 
had  misled  the  court  and  the  county  prosecutor.  He 
pointed  out — in  weighty  judicial  language — that  Victor 
Dorn  had  by  his  conduct  during  several  years  invited 
just  such  a  series  of  calamities  as  had  beset  him.  But 
he  went  on  to  say  that  Dorn's  reputation  and  fondness 
for  speech  and  action  bordering  on  the  lawless  did 
not  withdraw  from  him  the  protection  of  the  law.  In 
spite  of  himself  the  law  would  protect  him.  The  in 
junctions  were  dissolved  and  the  indictments  were 
quashed. 

The  news  of  the  impending  application,  published  in 
the  morning  papers,  had  crowded  the  court  room. 
When  the  Judge  finished  a  tremendous  cheer  went  up. 
The  cheer  passed  on  to  the  throng  outside,  and  when 
Davy  and  Hugo  appeared  in  the  corridor  they  were 
borne  upon  the  shoulders  of  workingmen  and  were 
not  released  until  they  had  made  speeches.  Davy's 

235 


THE   CONFLICT 


manly  simplicity  and  clearness  covered  the  stammering 
vagueness  of  hero  Galland. 

As  Davy  was  gradually  clearing  himself  of  the  eager 
handshakers  and  back-slappers,  Selma  suddenly  ap 
peared  before  him.  Her  eyes  were  shining  and  her 
whole  body  seemed  to  be  irradiating  emotion  of  ad 
miration  and  gratitude.  "Thank  you — oh,  thank 
you!"  she  said,  pressing  his  hand.  "How  I  have  mis 
judged  you !" 

Davy  did  not  wince.  He  had  now  quite  forgotten 
the  part  selfish  ambition  had  played  in  his  gallant  rush 
to  the  defense  of  imperilled  freedom — had  forgotten  it 
as  completely  as  the  now  ecstatic  Hugo  had  forgotten 
his  prejudices  against  the  "low,  smelly  working  peo 
ple."  He  looked  as  exalted  as  he  felt.  "I  only  did  my 
plain  duty,"  replied  he.  "How  could  any  decent  Amer 
ican  have  done  less?" 

"I  haven't  seen  Victor  since  yesterday  afternoon," 
pursued  Selma.  "But  I  know  how  grateful  he'll  be — 
not  so  much  for  what  you  did  as  that  you  did  it." 

The  instinct  of  the  crowd — the  universal  human  in- 
tinct — against  intruding  upon  a  young  man  and  young 
woman  talking  together  soon  cleared  them  of  neigh 
bors.  An  awkward  silence  fell.  Said  he  hesitatingly : 

"Are  you  ready  to  give  your  answer? — to  that  ques 
tion  I  asked  you  the  other  day." 

"I  gave  you  my  answer  then,"  replied  she,  her 
glance  seeking  a  way  of  escape. 

"No,"  said  he.  "For  you  said  then  that  you  would 
236 


THE   CONFLICT 


not  marry  me.  And  I  shall  never  take  no  for  an 
answer  until  you  have  married  some  one  else." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  large  and  grave  and 
puzzled.  "I'm  sure  you  don't  want  to  marry  me,"  she 
said.  "I  wonder  why  you  keep  asking  me." 

"I  have  to  be  honest  with  you,"  said  Davy.  "Some 
how  you  bring  out  all  the  good  there  is  in  me.  So,  I 
can't  conceal  anything  from  you.  In  a  way  I  don't 
want  to  marry  you.  You're  not  at  all  the  woman  I 
have  always  pictured  as  the  sort  I  ought  to  marry 
and  would  marry.  But — Selma,  I  love  you.  I'd  give 
up  anything — even  my  career — to  get  you.  When  I'm 
away  from  you  I  seem  to  regain  control  of  myself. 
But  just  as  soon  as  I  see  you,  I'm  as  bad  as  ever 
again." 

"Then  we  mustn't  see  each  other,"  said  she.  Sud 
denly  she  nodded,  laughed  up  at  him  and  darted  away 
— and  Hugo  Galland,  long  since  abandoned  by  the 
crowd,  had  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

Selma  debated  whether  to  take  Victor  the  news  or 
to  continue  her  walk.  She  decided  for  the  walk.  She 
had  been  feeling  peculiarly  toward  Victor  since  the 
previous  afternoon.  She  had  not  gone  back  in  the 
evening,  but  had  sent  an  excuse  by  one  of  the  Leaguers. 
It  was  plain  to  her  that  Jane  Hastings  was  up  to 
mischief,  and  she  had  begun  to  fear — sacrilegious 
though  she  felt  it  to  be  to  harbor  such  a  suspicion — 
that  there  was  man  enough,  weak,  vain,  susceptible 
man  enough,  in  Victor  Dorn  to  make  Jane  a  danger. 
16  237 


THE    CONFLICT 


The  more  she  had  thought  about  Jane  and  her  environ 
ment,  the  clearer  it  had  become  that  there  could  be 
no  permanent  and  deep  sincerity  in  Jane's  aspirations 
after  emancipation  from  her  class.  It  was  simply  the 
old,  old  story  of  a  woman  of  the  upper  class  becom 
ing  infatuated  with  a  man  of  a  genuine  kind  of  man 
hood  rarely  found  in  the  languor-producing  surround 
ings  of  her  own  class.  Would  Victor  yield?  No!  her 
loyalty  indignantly  answered.  But  he  might  allow  this 
useless  idler  to  hamper  him,  to  weaken  his  energies 
for  the  time — and  during  a  critical  period. 

She  did  not  wish  to  see  Victor  again  until  she 
should  have  decided  what  course  to  take.  To  think 
at  her  ease  she  walked  out  Monroe  Avenue  on  her  way 
to  the  country.  It  was  a  hot  day,  but  walking  along 
in  the  beautiful  shade  Selma  felt  no  discomfort,  except 
a  slight  burning  of  the  eyes  from  the  fierce  glare  of 
the  white  highway.  In  the  distance  she  heard  the 
sound  of  an  engine.  A  few  seconds,  and  past  her  at 
high  speed  swept  an  automobile.  Its  heavy  flying  wheels 
tore  up  the  roadway,  raised  an  enormous  cloud  of 
dust.  The  charm  of  the  walk  was  gone;  the  useful 
ness  of  roadway  and  footpaths  was  destroyed  for 
everybody  for  the  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  that  it 
would  take  for  the  mass  of  dust  to  settle — on  the 
foliage,  in  the  grass,  on  the  bodies  and  clothing  of 
passers-by  and  in  their  lungs.  Selma  halted  and  gazed 
after  the  auto.  Who  was  tearing  along  at  this  mad 
speed?  Who  was  destroying  the  comfort  of  all  using 

238 


THE   CONFLICT 


that  road,  and  annoying  them  and  making  the  air  unfit 
to  breathe !  Why,  an  idle,  luxuriously  dressed  woman, 
not  on  an  errand  of  life  or  death,  but  going  down 
town  to  amuse  herself  shopping  or  calling. 

The  dust  had  not  settled  before  a  second  auto, 
having  a  young  man  and  young  woman  apparently 
on  the  way  to  play  tennis,  rushed  by,  swirling  up 
even  vaster  clouds  of  dust  and  all  but  colliding  with 
a  baby  carriage  a  woman  was  trying  to  push  across 
the  street.  Selma's  blood  was  boiling!  The  infamy 
of  it!  These  worthless  idlers!  What  utter  lack  of 
manners,  of  consideration  for  their  fellow  beings.  A 
gentleman  and  a  lady  insulting  and  bullying  everyone 
who  happened  not  to  have  an  automobile.  Then — she 
laughed.  The  ignorant,  stupid  masses !  They  de 
served  to  be  treated  thus  contemptuously,  for  they 
could  stop  it  if  they  would.  "Some  day  we  shall 
learn,"  philosophized  she.  "Then  these  brutalities  of 
men  toward  each  other,  these  brutalities  big  and  little, 
will  cease."  This  matter  of  the  insulting  automobiles, 
with  insolent  horns  and  criminal  folly  of  speed  and 
hurling  dust  at  passers-by,  worse  than  if  the  occupants 
had  spat  upon  them  in  passing — this  matter  was  a  trifle 
beside  the  hideous  brutalities  of  men  compelling  masses 
of  their  fellow  beings,  children  no  less  than  grown 
people,  to  toil  at  things  killing  soul,  mind  and  body 
simply  in  order  that  fortunes  might  be  made!  There 
was  lack  of  consideration  worth  thinking  about. 

Three  more  autos  passed — three  more  clouds  of  dust, 
230 


THE   CONFLICT 


reducing  Selma  to  extreme  physical  discomfort.  Her 
philosophy  was  severely  strained.  She  was  in  the 
country  now;  but  even  there  she  was  pursued  by  these 
insolent  and  insulting  hunters  of  pleasure  utterly  in 
different  to  the  comfort  of  their  fellows.  And  when  a 
fourth  auto  passed,  bearing  Jane  Hastings  in  a  charm 
ing  new  dress  and  big,  becoming  hat — Selma,  eyes  and 
throat  full  of  dust  and  face  and  neck  and  hands 
streaked  and  dirty,  quite  lost  her  temper.  Jane  spoke ; 
she  turned  her  head  away,  pretending  not  to  see ! 

Presently  she  heard  an  auto  coming  at  a  less  men 
acing  pace  from  the  opposite  direction.  It  drew  up 
to  the  edge  of  the  road  abreast  of  her.  "Selma,"  called 
Jane. 

Selma  paused,  bent  a  frowning  and  angry  counte 
nance  upon  Jane. 

Jane  opened  the  door   of  the  limousine,  descended, 
said  to  her  chauffeur :     "Follow  us,  please."     She  ad 
vanced  to   Selma  with  a  timid  and  deprecating  smile. 
"You'll  let  me  walk  with  you?"  she  said. 

"I  am  thinking  out  a  very  important  matter,"  re 
plied  Selma,  with  frank  hostility.  "I  prefer  not  to  be 
interrupted." 

"Selma !"  pleaded  Jane.  "What  have  I  done  to  turn 
you  against  me?" 

Selma  stood,  silent,  incarnation  of  freedom  and  will. 
She  looked  steadily  at  Jane.  "You  haven't  done  any 
thing,"  she  replied.  "On  impulse  I  liked  you.  On 
sober  second  thought  I  don't.  That's  all." 

240 


THE    CONFLICT 


"You  gave  me  your  friendship,"  said  Jane.  "You've 
no  right  to  withdraw  it  without  telling  me  why." 

"You  are  not  of  my  class.  You  are  of  the 
class  that  is  at  war  with  mine — at  war  upon  it. 
When  you  talk  of  friendship  to  me,  you  are  either 
false  to  your  own  people  or  false  in  your  professions 
to  me." 

Selma's  manner  was  rudely  offensive — as  rude  as 
Jane's  dust,  to  which  it  was  perhaps  a  retort.  Jane 
showed  marvelous  restraint.  She  told  herself  that  she 
felt  compassionate  toward  this  attractive,  honest,  really 
nice  girl.  It  is  possible,  however,  that  an  instinct  of 
prudence  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  her  ultra- 
conciliatory  attitude  toward  the  dusty  little  woman  in 
the  cheap  linen  dress.  The  enmity  of  one  so  near  to 
Victor  Dorn  was  certainly  not  an  advantage.  Instead 
of  flaring  up,  Jane  said : 

"Now,  Selma — do  be  human — do  be  your  sweet, 
natural  self.  It  isn't  my  fault  that  I  am  what  I  am. 
And  you  know  that  I  really  belong  heart  and  soul 
with  you." 

"Then  come  with  us,"  said  Selma.  "If  you  think 
the  life  you  lead  is  foolish — why,  stop  leading  it." 

"You  know  I  can't,"  said  Jane  mournfully. 

"I  know  you  could,"  retorted  Selma.  "Don't  be  a 
hypocrite,  Jane." 

"Selma — how  harsh  you  are !"  cried  Jane. 

"Either  come  with  us  or  keep  away  from  us,"  said 
the  girl  inflexibly.  "You  may  deceive  yourself — and 

241 


THE   CONFLICT 


men — with  that  talk  of  broad  views  and  high  aspira 
tions.  But  you  can't  deceive  another  woman." 

"I'm  not  trying  to  deceive  anybody,"  exclaimed  Jane 
angrily.  "Permit  me  to  say,  Selma,  that  your  meth 
ods  won't  make  many  converts  to  your  cause." 

"Who  ever  gave  you  the  idea  that  we  were  seeking 
converts  in  your  class?"  inquired  Selma.  "Our  whole 
object  is  to  abolish  your  class — and  end  its  drain  upon 
us — and  its  bad  example — and  make  its  members  use 
ful  members  of  our  class,  and  more  contented  and 
happier  than  they  are  now."  She  laughed — a  free  and 
merry  laugh,  but  not  pleasant  in  Jane's  ears.  "The 
idea  of  us  trying  to  induce  young  ladies  and  young 
gentlemen  with  polished  finger  nails  to  sit  round  in 
drawing-rooms  talking  patronizingly  of  doing  something 
for  the  masses !  You've  got  a  very  queer  notion  of 
us,  my  dear  Miss  Hastings." 

Jane's  eyes  were  flashing.  "Selma,  there's  a  devil  in 
you  to-day.  What  is  it?"  she  demanded. 

"There's  a  great  deal  of  dust  from  your  automobile 
in  me  and  on  me,"  said  Selma.  "I  congratulate  you  on 
your  good  manners  in  rushing  about  spattering  and 
befouling  your  fellow  beings  and  threatening  their 
lives." 

Jane  colored  and  lowered  her  head.  "I — I  never 
thought  of  that  before,"  she  said  humbly. 

Selma's  anger  suddenly  dissolved.  "I'm  ashamed  of 
myself,"  she  cried.  "Forgive  me." 

What  she  had  said  about  the  automobile  had  made 
242 


THE   CONFLICT 


an  instant  deep  impression  upon  Jane,  who  was  hon 
estly  trying  to  live  up  to  her  aspirations — when  she 
wasn't  giving  up  the  effort  as  hopelessly  beyond  her 
powers  and  trying  to  content  herself  with  just  aspir 
ing.  She  was  not  hypocritical  in  her  contrition.  The 
dust  disfiguring  the  foliage,  streaking  Selma's  face  and 
hair,  was  forcing  the  lesson  in  manners  vigorously 
home.  "I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  teaching  me 
what  I  ought  to  have  learned  for  myself,"  she  said. 
"I  don't  blame  you  for  scorning  me.  I  am  a  pretty 
poor  excuse.  But" — with  her  most  charming  smile — 
"I'll  do  better— all  the  faster  if  you'll  help  me." 

Selma  looked  at  her  with  a  frank,  dismayed  contri 
tion,  like  a  child  that  realizes  it  has  done  something 
very  foolish.  "Oh,  I'm  so  horribly  impulsive!"  she 
cried.  "It's  always  getting  me  into  trouble.  You  don't 
know  how  I  try  Victor  Dorn's  patience — though  he 
never  makes  the  least  sign."  She  laughed  up  at  Jane. 
"I  wish  you'd  give  me  a  whipping.  I'd  feel  lots  better." 

"It'd  take  some  of  my  dust  off  you,"  said  Jane. 
"Let  me  take  you  to  the  house  in  the  auto — you'll 
never  see  it  going  at  that  speed  again,  I  promise. 
Come  to  the  house  and  I'll  dust  you  off — and  we'll  go 
for  a  walk  in  the  woods." 

Selma  felt  that  she  owed  it  to  Jane  to  accept.  As 
they  were  climbing  the  hill  in  the  auto,  Selma  said : 

"My,  how  comfortable  this  is !  No  wonder  the 
people  that  have  autos  stop  exercising  and  get  fat 
and  sick  and  die.  I  couldn't  trust  myself  with  one." 

243 


THE   CONFLICT 


"It's  a  daily  fight,"  confessed  Jane.  "If  I  were 
married  and  didn't  have  to  think  about  my  looks  and 
my  figure  I'm  afraid  I'd  give  up." 

"Victor  says  the  only  time  one  ought  ever  to  ride 
in  a  carriage  is  to  his  own  funeral." 

"He's  down  on  show  and  luxury  of  every  kind — 
isn't  he?"  said  Jane. 

"No,  indeed,"  replied  Selma.  "Victor  isn't  'down  on' 
anything.  He  thinks  show  and  luxury  are  silly.  He 
could  be  rich  if  he  wished,  for  he  has  wonderful  talent 
for  managing  things  and  for  making  money.  He  has 
refused  some  of  the  most  wonderful  offers — wonderful 
in  that  way.  But  he  thinks  money-making  a  waste  of 
time.  He  has  all  he  wants,  and  he  says  he'd  as  soon 
think  of  eating  a  second  dinner  when  he'd  just  had  one 
as  of  exchanging  time  that  could  be  lived  for  a  lot  of 
foolish  dollars." 

"And  he  meant  it,  too,"  said  Jane.  "In  some  men 
that  would  sound  like  pretense.  But  not  in  him.  What 
a  mind  he  has — and  what  a  character!" 

Selma  was  abruptly  overcast  and  ominously  silent. 
She  wished  she  had  not  been  turned  so  far  by  her  im 
pulse  of  penitence — wished  she  had  held  to  the  calm 
and  deliberate  part  of  her  resolve  about  Jane — the  part 
that  involved  keeping  aloof  from  her.  However,  Jane, 
the  tactful — hastened  to  shift  the  conversation  to  gen 
eralities  of  the  softest  kinds — talked  about  her  college 
life — about  the  inane  and  useless  education  they  had 
given  her — drew  Selma  out  to  talk  about  her  own  edu- 


THE    CONFLICT 


cation — in  the  tenement — in  the  public  school,  at  night 
school,  in  factory  and  shop.  Not  until  they  had  been 
walking  in  the  woods  nearly  two  hours  and  Selma  was 
about  to  go  home,  did  Victor,  about  whom  both  were 
thinking  all  the  time,  come  into  the  conversation  again. 
It  was  Jane  who  could  no  longer  keep  away  from  the 
subject — the  one  subject  that  wholly  interested  her 
nowadays.  Said  she: 

"Victor  Dorn  is  really  almost  well,  you  think?" 

After  a  significant  pause  Selma  said  in  a  tone  that 
was  certainly  not  encouraging,  "Obviously." 

"I  was  altogether  wrong  about  Doctor  Charlton," 
said  Jane.  "I'm  convinced  now  that  he's  the  only 
really  intelligent  doctor  in  town.  I'm  trying  to  per 
suade  father  to  change  to  him." 

"Well,  good-by,"  said  Selma.  She  was  eager  to 
get  away,  for  she  suddenly  felt  that  Jane  was  deter 
mined  to  talk  about  Victor  before  letting  her  go. 

"You  altered  toward  me  when  I  made  that  con 
fession — the  night  of  the  riot,"  said  Jane  abruptly. 
"Are  you  in  love  with  him,  too  ?" 

"No,"  said  Selma. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  help  being,"  cried 
Jane. 

"That's  because  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be 
busy,"  retorted  Selma.  "Love- — what  you  call  love — 
is  one  of  the  pastimes  with  your  sort  of  people.  It's  a 
lazy,  easy  way  of  occupying  the  thoughts." 

"You  don't  know  me  as  well  as  you  think  you  do," 
245 


THE   CONFLICT 


said  Jane.  Her  expression  fascinated  Selma — and  made 
her  more  afraid  than  ever. 

Impulsively  Selma  took  Jane  by  the  arm.  "Keep 
away  from  us,"  she  said.  "You  will  do  no  good.  You 
can  only  cause  unhappiness — perhaps  most  of  all  to 
yourself." 

"Don't  I  know  that !"  exclaimed  Jane.  "I'm  fighting 
it  as  hard  as  I  can.  But  how  little  control  one  has 
over  oneself  when  one  has  always  been  indulged  and 
self-indulgent." 

"The   man    for   you    is    David   Hull,"    said    Selma. 

"You  could  help  him — could  make  a  great  deal  of  a 
person  out  of  him." 

"I  know  it,"  replied  Jane.  "But  I  don't  want  him, 
and  he — perhaps  you  didn't  know  that  he  is  in  love 
with  you?" 

"No  more  than  you  are  with  Victor  Dorn,"  said 
Selma.  "I'm  different  from  the  women  he  has  known, 
just  as  Victor  is  different  from  the  men  you  meet  in 
your  class.  But  this  is  a  waste  of  time." 

"You  don't  believe  in  me  at  all,"  cried  Jane.  "In 
some  ways  you  are  very  unjust  and  narrow,  Selma." 

Selma  looked  at  her  in  that  grave  way  which  seemed 
to  compel  frankness.  "Do  you  believe  in  yourself?" 
she  asked. 

Jane's  glance  shifted. 

"You  know  you  do  not,"  proceeded  Selma.  "The 
women  of  your  class  rarely  have  sincere  emotions  be 
cause  they  do  not  lead  sincere  lives.  Part  of  your 

246 


THE    CONFLICT 


imaginary  love  for  Victor  Dorn  is  desire  to  fill  up  idle 
hours.  The  rest  of  it  is  vanity — the  desire  to  show 
your  power  over  a  man  who  seems  to  be  woman-proof." 
She  laughed  a  little,  turned  away,  paused.  "My  mother 
used  to  quote  a  French  proverb — 'One  cannot  trifle 
with  love.'  Be  careful,  Jane — for  your  own  sake.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  could  conquer  Victor  Dorn  or 
not.  But  I  do  know  if  you  could  conquer  him  it  would 
be  only  at  the  usual  price  of  those  conquests  to  a 
woman." 

"And  what  is  that?"  said  Jane. 

"Your  own  complete  surrender,"  said  Selma. 

"How  wise  you  are!"  laughed  Jane.  "Who  would 
have  suspected  you  of  knowing  so  much!" 

"How  could  I — a  woman — and  not  unattractive  to 
men — grow  up  to  be  twenty-one  years  old,  in  the  free 
life  of  a  working  woman,  without  learning  all  there  is 
to  know  about  sex  relations  ?" 

Jane  looked  at  her  with  a  new  interest. 

"And,"  she  went  on,  "I've  learned — not  by  experi 
ence,  I'm  glad  to  say,  but  by  observation — that  my 
mother's  proverb  is  true.  I  shall  not  think  about  love 
until  I  am  compelled  to.  That  is  a  peril  a  sensible 
person  does  not  seek." 

"I  did  not  seek  it,"  cried  Jane — and  then  she  halted 
and  flushed. 

"Good-by,  Jane,"  said  Selma,  waving  her  hand  and 
moving  away  rapidly.  She  called  back — "On  ne  badine 
pas  avec  1'amour !" 

247 


THE    CONFLICT 


She  went  straight  to  Colman's  cottage — to  Victor, 
lying  very  pale  with  his  eyes  shut,  and  big  Tom  Colman 
sitting  by  his  bed.  There  was  a  stillness  in  the  room 
that  Selma  felt  was  ominous.  Victor's  hand — strong, 
well-shaped,  useful-looking,  used-looking — not  abused- 
looking,  but  used-looking — was  outside  the  covers  upon 
the  white  counterpane.  The  fingers  were  drumming 
softly;  Selma  knew  that  gesture — a  certain  sign  that 
Victor  was  troubled  in  mind. 

"You've  told  him,"  said  Selma  to  Colman  as  she 
paused  in  the  doorway. 

Victor  turned  his  head  quickly,  opened  his  eyes,  gave 
her  a  look  of  welcome  that  made  her  thrill  with  pride. 
"Oh — there  you  are!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  was  hoping 
you'd  come." 

"I  saw  David  Hull  just  after  it  was  done,"  said 
Selma.  "And  I  thanked  him  for  you." 

Victor's  eyes  had  a  look  of  amusement,  of  mockery. 
"Thank  you,"  he  said. 

She,  the  sensitive,  was  on  the  alert  at  once.  "Didn't 
you  want  me  to  thank  him  ?" 

Victor  did  not  answer.  In  the  same  amused  way 
he  went  on:  "So  they  carried  him  on  their  shoulders 
— him  and  that  other  defender  of  the  rights  of  the 
people,  Hugo  Galland?  I  should  like  to  have  seen. 
It  was  a  memorable  spectacle." 

"You  are  laughing  at  it,"  exclaimed  the  girl, 
"Why?" 

"You  certainly  are  taking  the  news  very  queer, 
248 


THE   CONFLICT 


Victor,"  said  Colman.  Then  to  Selma,  "When  I  told 
him  he  got  white  and  I  thought  I'd  have  to  send  for 
Doctor  Charlton." 

"Well — joy  never  Idlls,"  said  Victor  mockingly.  "I 
don't  want  to  keep  you,  Tom — Selma'll  sit  with  me." 

When  they  were  alone,  Victor  again  closed  his  eyes 
and  resumed  that  silent  drumming  upon  the  counter 
pane.  Selma  watched  the  restless  fingers  as  if  she  hoped 
they  would  disclose  to  her  the  puzzling  secret  of 
Victor's  thoughts.  But  she  did  not  interrupt.  That 
was  one  lesson  in  restraint  that  Victor  had  succeeded 
in  teaching  her — never  to  interrupt.  At  last  he  heaved 
a  great  sigh  and  said: 

"Well,  Selma,  old  girl — we've  probably  lost  again. 
I  was  glad  you  came  because  I  wanted  to  talk — and  I 
can't  say  what's  in  my  mind  before  dear  old  Tom — or 
any  of  them  but  my  sister  and  you." 

"You  didn't  want  those  injunctions  and  indictments 
out  of  the  way?"  said  Selma. 

"If  they  had  stood,  we'd  have  won — in  a  walk,"  re 
plied  Victor.  "As  the  cards  lie  new,  David  Hull  will 
win.  And  he'll  make  a  pretty  good  show  mayor,  prob 
ably — good  enough  to  fool  a  large  majority  of  our 
fellow  citizens,  who  are  politically  as  shallow  and  cred 
ulous  as  nursery  children.  And  so — our  work  of  edu 
cating  them  will  be  the  harder  and  slower.  Oh,  these 
David  Hulls! — these  good  men  who  keep  their  mantles 
spotless  in  order  to  make  them  the  more  useful  as 
covers  for  the  dirty  work  of  others !"  Suddenly  his 

240 


THE   CONFLICT 


merry  smile  burst  out.     "And  they  carried  Hugo  Gal- 
land  on  their  shoulders?" 

"Then  you  don't  think  Hull's  motives  were  honor 
able?"  inquired  Selma,  perplexed  and  anxious. 

"How  could  I  know  his  motives? — any  man's  mo 
tives?"  replied  Victor.  "No  one  can  read  men's  hearts. 
All  I  ever  consider  is  actions.  And  the  result  of  his 
actions  is  probably  the  defeat  of  the  League  and  the 
election  of  Dick  Kelly." 

"I  begin  to  understand,"  said  Selma  thoughtfully. 
"But — I  do  believe  his  motive  was  altogether  good." 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  Victor,  "the  primer  lesson  in 
the  life  of  action  is:  'Never — never  look  at  motives. 
Action — only  actions — always  actions.'  The  chief  rea 
son  the  human  race  is  led  patiently  round  by  the  nose 
is  its  fondness  for  fussing  about  motives.  We  are  in 
terested  only  in  men's  actions  and  the  results  to  our 
cause.  Davy  Hull's  motives  concern  only  himself — 
and  those  who  care  for  him."  Victor's  eyes,  twinkling 
mischievously,  shot  a  shrewd  glance  at  Selma.  "You're 
not  by  any  chance  in  love  with  Davy  ?" 

Selma  colored  high.  "Certainly  not!"  she  exclaimed 
indignantly. 

"Why  not?  Why  not?"  teased  Victor.  "He's  tall 
and  handsome — and  superbly  solemn — and  women  al 
ways  fancy  a  solemn  man  has  intellect  and  character. 
Not  that  Davy  is  a  fool — by  no  means.  Pd  be  the 
last  man  to  say  that — I  whom  he  has  just  cleverly 
checkmated  in  one  move." 

250 


THE    CONFLICT 


"You  intended  not  to  give  bail!  You  intended  to 
go  to  jail!"  exclaimed  Selma  abruptly.  "I  see  it  all! 
How  stupid  I  was !  Oh,  I  could  cry,  Victor !  What  a 
chance." 

"Spilt  milk,"  said  Victor.  "We  must  forget  it,  and 
plan  to  meet  the  new  conditions.  We'll  start  the  paper 
at  once.  We  can't  attack  him.  Very  clever  of  him — 
very  clever!  If  he  were  as  brave  as  he  is  shrewd,  I'd 
almost  give  up  hope  of  winning  this  town  while  he  was 
in  politics  here.  But  he  lacks  courage.  And  he  daren't 
think  and  speak  honestly.  How  that  does  cripple  a 
man!" 

"He'll  be  one  of  us  before  very  long,"  said  Selma. 
"You  misjudge  him,  Victor." 

Dorn  smiled.  "Not  so  long  as  his  own  class  grati 
fies  his  ambitions,"  replied  Victor.  "If  he  came  with 
us  it'd  be  because  his  own  class  had  failed  him  and 
he  hoped  to  rise  through  and  upon — ours." 

Selma  did  not  agree  with  him.  But  as  she  always 
felt  presumptuous  and  even  foolish  in  disagreeing 
with  Victor,  she  kept  silent.  And  presently  Victor 
began  to  lay  out  her  share  in  the  task  of  starting  up 
the  New  Day.  "I  shall  be  all  right  within  a  week," 
said  he,  "and  we  must  get  the  first  number  out  the 
week  following."  She  was  realizing  now  that  Hull's 
move  had  completely  upset  an  elaborate  plan  of  cam 
paign  into  which  Victor  had  put  all  his  intelligence 
and  upon  which  he  had  staked  all  his  hopes.  She 
marvelled  as  he  talked,  unfolding  rapidly  an  entirely 

251 


THE    CONFLICT 


new  campaign,  different  in  every  respect  from  what 
the  other  would  have  been.  How  swiftly  his  mind  had 
worked,  and  how  well!  How  little  time  he  had  wasted 
in  vain  regrets !  How  quickly  he  had  recovered  from  a 
reverse  that  would  have  halted  many  a  strong  man. 

And  then  she  remembered  how  they  all,  his  associates, 
were  like  him,  proof  against  the  evil  effects  of  set-back 
and  defeat.  And  why  were  they  so?  Because  Victor 
Dorn  had  trained  them  to  fight  for  the  cause,  and  not 
for  victory.  "Our  cause  is  the  right,  and  in  the  end 
right  is  bound  to  win  because  the  right  is  only  another 
name  for  the  sensible" — that  had  been  his  teaching. 
And  a  hardy  army  he  had  trained.  The  armies  trained 
by  victory  are  strong;  but  the  armies  schooled  by  de 
feat — the^r  are  invincible. 

When  he  had  explained  his  new  campaign — as  much 
of  it  as  he  deemed  it  wise  at  that  time  to  withdraw 
from  the  security  of  his  own  brain — she  said : 

"But  it  seems  to  me  we've  got  a  good  chance  to 
win,  anyhow." 

"A  chance,  perhaps,"  replied  he.  "But  we'll  not 
bother  about  that.  All  we've  got  to  do  is  to  keep  on 
strengthening  ourselves." 

"Yes,  that's  it!"  she  cried.  "One  added  here — five 
there — ten  yonder.  Every  new  stone  fitted  solidly 
against  the  ones  already  in  place." 

"We  must  never  forget  that  we  aren't  merely  build 
ing  a  new  party,"  said  Dorn.  "We're  building  a  new 
civilization — one  to  fit  the  new  conditions  of  life.  Let 

252 


THE   CONFLICT 


the  Davy  Hulls  patch  and  tinker  away  at  trying  to 
keep  the  old  structure  from  falling  in.  We  know  it's 
bound  to  fall  and  that  it  isn't  fit  for  decent  civilized 
human  beings  to  live  in.  And  we're  getting  the  new  house 
ready.  So — to  us,  election  day  is  no  more  important 
than  any  of  the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five." 

It  was  into  the  presence  of  a  Victor  Dorn  restored 
in  mind  as  well  as  in  body  that  Jane  Hastings  was 
shown  by  his  sister,  Mrs.  Sherrill,  one  afternoon  a  week 
or  so  later. 

All  that  time  Jane  had  been  searching  for  an  excuse 
for  going  to  see  him.  She  had  haunted  the  roads  and 
the  woods  where  he  and  Selma  habitually  walked.  She 
had  seen  neither  of  them.  When  the  pretext  for  a 
call  finally  came  to  her,  as  usual,  the  most  obvious 
thing  in  the  world.  He  must  be  suspecting  her  of 
having  betrayed  his  confidence  and  brought  about  the 
vacating  of  those  injunctions  and  the  quashing  of  the 
indictments.  She  must  go  to  him  and  clear  herself  of 
suspicion. 

She  felt  that  the  question  of  how  she  should  dress 
for  this  crucial  interview,  this  attempt  to  establish 
some  sort  of  friendly  relations  with  him,  was  of  the 
very  highest  importance.  Should  she  wear  something 
plain,  something  that  would  make  her  look  as  nearly 
as  might  be  like  one  of  his  own  class  ?  His  class !  No 
— no,  indeed.  The  class  in  which  he  was  accidentally 
born  and  bred,  but  to  which  he  did  not  belong.  Or» 
17  253 


THE   CONFLICT 


should  she  go  dressed  frankly  as  of  her  own  class — 
wearing  the  sort  of  things  that  made  her  look  her 
finest  and  most  superior  and  most  beautiful?  Having 
nothing  else  to  do,  she  spent  several  hours  in  trying 
various  toilets.  She  was  not  long  in  deciding  against 
disguising  herself  as  a  working  woman.  That  garb 
might  win  his  mental  and  moral  approval;  but  not  by 
mental  and  moral  ways  did  women  and  men  prevail 
with  each  other.  In  plain  garb — so  Jane  decided,  as 
she  inspected  herself — she  was  no  match  for  Selma 
Gordon;  she  looked  awkward,  out  of  her  element.  So 
much  being  settled,  there  remained  to  choose  among 
her  various  toilets.  She  decided  for  an  embroidered 
white  summer  dress,  extremely  simple,  but  in  the  way 
that  costs  beyond  the  power  of  any  but  the  very  rich 
to  afford.  When  she  was  ready  to  set  forth,  she  had 
never  looked  so  well  in  her  life.  Her  toilet  seemed  a 
mere  detail.  In  fact,  it  was  some  such  subtlety  as 
those  arrangements  of  lines  and  colors  in  great  pictures, 
whereby  the  glance  of  the  beholder  is  unconsciously 
compelled  toward  the  central  figure,  just  as  water  in  a 
funnel  must  go  toward  the  aperture  at  the  bottom. 
Jane  felt,  not  without  reason,  that  she  had  executed 
a  stroke  of  genius.  She  was  wearing  nothing  that 
could  awaken  Victor  Dorn's  prejudices  about  fine 
clothes,  for  he  must  have  those  prejudices.  Yet  she 
was  dressed  in  conformity  with  all  that  centuries,  ages 
of  experience,  have  taught  the  dressmaking  art  on  the 
subject  of  feminine  allure.  And,  when  a  woman  feels 

254 


THE    CONFLICT 


that  she  is  so  dressed,  her  natural  allure  becomes 
greatly  enhanced. 

She  drove  down  to  a  point  in  Monroe  Avenue  not 
far  from  the  house  where  Victor  and  his  family  lived. 
The  day  was  hot;  boss-ridden  Remsen  City  had  dusty 
and  ragged  streets  and  sidewalks.  It,  therefore,  would 
not  do  to  endanger  the  freshness  of  the  toilet.  But 
she  would  arrive  as  if  she  had  come  all  the  way  on 
foot.  Arrival  in  a  motor  at  so  humble  a  house  would 
look  like  ostentation;  also,  if  she  were  seen  going 
through  that  street  afoot,  people  would  think  she  was 
merely  strolling  a  little  out  of  her  way  to  view  the 
ruins  of  the  buildings  set  on  fire  by  the  mob.  She 
did  pause  to  look  at  these  ruins ;  the  air  of  the  neigh 
borhood  still  had  a  taint  of  burnt  wood  and  paper. 
Presently,  when  she  was  sure  the  street  was  clear  of 
people  of  the  sort  who  might  talk — she  hastily  entered 
the  tiny  front  yard  of  Victor's  house,  and  was  pleased 
to  find  herself  immediately  screened  from  the  street  by 
the  luxuriant  bushes  and  creepers. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  least  pretentious  about 
the  appearance  of  the  little  house.  It  was  simply  a 
well  built  cottage — but  of  brick,  instead  of  the  usual 
wood,  and  the  slate  roof  descended  at  attractive  angles. 
The  door  she  was  facing  was  superior  to  the  usual 
flimsy-looking  door.  Indeed,  she  at  once  became  con 
scious  of  a  highly  attractive  and  most  unexpected  air 
of  substantiality  and  good  taste.  The  people  who 
lived  here  seemed  to  be  permanent  people — long  resi- 

255 


THE   CONFLICT 


dent,  and  looking  forward  to  long  residence.  She  had 
never  seen  such  beautiful  or  such  tastefully  grouped  sun 
flowers,  and  the  dahlias  and  marigolds  were  far  above 
the  familiar  commonplace  kitchen  garden  flowers. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  handsome,  extremely  intelli 
gent  looking  woman,  obviously  Victor's  sister,  was 
looking  pleasantly  at  her.  Said  she:  "I'm  sorry  to 
have  kept  you  waiting.  But  I  was  busy  in  the  kitchen. 
This  is  Miss  Hastings,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jane,  smiling  friendlily. 

"I've  heard  my  brother  and  Selma  talk  of  you." 
(Jane  wondered  what  they  had  said.)  "You  wish  to 
see  Victor?" 

"If  I'd  not  be  interrupting,"  said  Jane. 

"Come  right  in.  He's  used  to  being  interrupted. 
They  don't  give  him  five  minutes  to  himself  all  day 
long — especially  now  that  the  campaign's  on.  He  al 
ways  does  his  serious  work  very  early  in  the  morning." 

They  went  through  a  hall,  pleasantly  odorous  of 
baking  in  which  good  flour  and  good  butter  and  good 
eggs  were  being  manufactured  into  something  probably 
appetizing,  certainly  wholesome.  Jane  caught  a 
glimpse  through  open  doors  on  either  side  of  a  neat 
and  reposeful  little  library-sitting  room,  a  plain  de 
lightfully  simple  little  bedroom,  a  kitchen  wher- 
everything  shone.  She  arrived  at  the  rear  door  some 
how  depressed,  bereft  of  the  feeling  of  upper-class 
superiority  which  had,  perhaps  unconsciously,  pos 
sessed  her  as  she  came  toward  the  house.  At  the  far 

250 


THE   CONFLICT 


end  of  an  arbor  on  which  the  grape  vines  were  so 
trellised  that  their  broad  leaves  cast  a  perfect  shade, 
sat  Victor  writing  at  a  table  under  a  tree.  He  was  in 
his  shirt  sleeves,  and  his  shirt  was  open  at  the  throat. 
His  skin  was  smooth  and  healthily  white  below  the 
collar  line.  The  forearms  exposed  by  his  rolled  up 
sleeves  were  strong  but  slender,  and  the  faint  fair  hair 
upon  them  suggested  a  man,  but  not  an  animal. 

Never  had  she  seen  his  face  and  head  so  fine.  He 
was  writing  rapidly,  his  body  easily  erect,  his  head  and 
neck  in  a  poise  of  grace  and  strength.  Jane  grew 
pale  and  trembled— so  much  so  that  she  was  afraid 
the  keen,  friendly  eyes  of  Alice  Sherrill  were  seeing. 
Said  Mrs.  Sherrill,  raising  her  voice : 

"Victor — here's  Miss  Hastings  come  to  see  you.'* 
Then  to  Jane:  "Excuse  me,  please.  I  don't  dare 
leave  that  kitchen  long." 

She  departed.  Jane  waited  while  Victor,  his  pencil 
reluctantly  slackening  and  his  glance  lingeringly  rising 
from  the  paper,  came  back  to  sense  of  his  surround 
ings.  He  stared  at  her  blankly,  then  colored  a  little. 
He  rose — stiff,  for  him  formal.  Said  he: 

"How  d'you  do,  Miss  Hastings?" 

She  came  down  the  arbor,  recovering  her  assurance 
as  she  again  became  conscious  of  herself,  so  charm 
ingly  dressed  and  no  doubt  beautiful  in  his  eyes.  "I 
know  you're  not  glad  to  see  me,"  said  she.  "But  I'm 
only  stopping  a  very  little  minute." 

His  eyes  had  softened — softened  under  the  influence 
257 


THE    CONFLICT 


of  the  emotion  no  man  can  ever  fail  to  feel  at  least  in 
some  degree  at  sight  of  a  lovely  woman.  "Won't  you 
sit?"  said  he,  with  a  glance  at  the  wooden  chair  near 
the  other  side  of  the  table. 

She  seated  herself,  resting  one  gloved  hand  on  the 
prettily  carved  end  of  her  white  sunshade.  She  was 
wearing  a  big  hat  of  rough  black  straw,  with  a  few  very 
gorgeous  white  plumes.  "What  a  delightful  place  to 
work,"  exclaimed  she,  looking  round,  admiring  the 
flowers,  the  slow  ripening  grapes,  the  delicious  shade. 
"And  you — how  well  you  look !" 

"I've  forgotten  I  was  ever  anything  but  well," 
said  he. 

"You're  impatient  for  me  to  go,"  she  cried  laugh 
ing.  "It's  very  rude  to  show  it  so  plainly." 

"No,"  replied  he.  "I  am  not  impatient  for  you  to 
go.  But  I  ought  to  be,  for  I'm  very  busy." 

"Well,  I  shall  be  gone  in  a  moment.  I  came  only 
to  tell  you  that  you  are  suspecting  me  wrongly." 

"Suspecting  you? — of  what?" 

"Of  having  broken  my  word.  I  know  you  must 
think  I  got  father  to  set  Davy  Hull  on  to  upsetting 
your  plans." 

"The  idea  never  entered  my  head,"  said  he.  "You 
had  promised — and  I  know  you  are  honest." 

Jane  colored  violently  and  lowered  her  eyes.  "I'm 
not — not  up  to  what  you  say,"  she  protested.  "But 
at  least  I  didn't  break  my  promise.  Davy  thought  of 
that  himself." 

258 


THE   CONFLICT 


"I  have  been  assuming  so." 

"And  you  didn't  suspect  me?" 

"Not  for  an  instant,"  Victor  assured  her.  "Davy 
simply  made  the  move  that  was  obviously  best  for  him." 

"And  now  he  will  be  elected,"  said  Jane  regretfully. 

"It  looks  that  way,"  replied  Victor.  And  he  had 
the  air  of  one  who  has  nothing  more  to  say. 

Suddenly  Jane  looked  at  him  with  eyes  shining  and 
full  of  appeal.  "Don't  send  me  away  so  quickly,"  she 
pleaded.  "I've  not  been  telling  the  exact  truth.  I 
came  only  partly  because  I  feared  you  were  suspecting 
me.  The  real  reason  was  that — that  I  couldn't  stay 
away  any  longer.  I  know  you're  not  in  the  least  inter 
ested  in  me " 

She  was  watching  him  narrowly  for  signs  of  contra 
diction.  She  hoped  she  had  not  watched  in  vain. 

"Why  should  you  be?"  she  went  on.  "But  ever 
since  you  opened  my  eyes  and  set  me  to  thinking,  I 
can  do  nothing  but  think  about  the  things  you  have 
said  to  me,  and  long  to  come  to  you  and  ask  you  ques 
tions  and  hear  more." 

Victor  was  staring  hard  into  the  wall  of  foliage.  His 
face  was  set.  She  thought  she  had  never  seen  anything 
so  resolute,  so  repelling  as  the  curve  of  his  long  jaw 
bone. 

"I'll  go  now,"  she  said,  making  a  pretended  move 
toward  rising.  "I've  no  right  to  annoy  you." 

He  stood  up  abruptly,  without  looking  at  her.  "Yes, 
you'd  better  go,"  he  said  curtly. 

259 


THE    CONFLICT 


She  quivered — and  it  was  with  a  pang  of  genuine 
pain. 

His  gaze  was  not  so  far  from  her  as  it  seemed.  For 
he  must  have  noted  her  expression,  since  he  said  hur 
riedly:  "I  beg  your  pardon.  It  isn't  that  I  mean  to 
be  rude.  I — I — it  is  best  that  I  do  not  see  you." 

She  sank  back  in  the  chair  with  a  sigh.  "And  I — I 
know  that  I  ought  to  keep  away  from  you.  But — I 
can't.  It's  too  strong  for  me." 

He  looked  at  her  slowly.  "I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  put  you  out  of  my  head,"  he  said.  "And  I  shall." 

"Don't!"  she  cried.     "Victor— don't !" 

He  sat  again,  rested  his  forearms  upon  the  table, 
leaned  toward  her.  "Look  at  me,"  he  said. 

She  slowly  lifted  her  gaze  to  his,  met  it  steadily. 
"I  thought  so,  Victor,"  she  said  tenderly.  "I  knew  I 
couldn't  care  so  much  unless  you  cared  at  least  a 
little." 

"Do  I?"  said  he.  "I  don't  know.  I  doubt  if  either 
of  us  is  in  love  with  the  other.  Certainly,  you  are  not 
the  sort  of  woman  I  could  love — deeply  love.  What  I 
feel  for  you  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  passes.  It  is 
violent  while  it  lasts,  but  it  passes." 

"I  don't  care!"  cried  she  recklessly.  "Whatever  it 
is  I  want  it !" 

He  shook  his  head  resolutely.  "No,"  he  said.  "You 
don't  want  it,  and  I  don't  want  it.  I  know  the  kind 
of  life  you've  mapped  out  for  yourself — as  far  as 
women  of  your  class  map  out  anything.  It's  the  only 

260 


THE    CONFLICT 


kind  of  life  possible  to  you.  And  it's  of  a  kind  with 
which  I  could,*  and  would,  have  nothing  to  do." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  protested  she.  "You  could 
make  of  me  what  you  pleased." 

"No,"  said  he.  "I  couldn't  make  a  suit  of  overalls 
out  of  a  length  of  silk.  Anyhow,  I  have  made  up  my 
life  with  love  and  marriage  left  out.  They  are  excellent 
things  for  some  people,  for  most  people.  But  not  for 
me.  I  must  be  free,  absolutely  free.  Free  to  think 
only  of  the  cause  I've  enlisted  in,  free  to  do  what  it 
commands." 

"And  I?"  she  said  with  tremendous  life.  "What  is 
to  become  of  me,  Victor?" 

He  laughed  quietly.  "You  are  going  to  keep  away 
from  me — find  some  one  else  to  amuse  your  leisure. 
That's  what's  going  to  become  of  you,  Jane  Hast- 
ings." 

She  winced  and  quivered  again.  "That — hurts,"  she 
said. 

"Your  vanity?  Yes.  I  suppose  it  does.  But  those 
wounds  are  healthful — when  the  person  is  as  sensible 
as  you  are." 

"You  think  I  am  not  capable  of  caring!  You  think 
I  am  vain  and  shallow  and  idle.  You  refuse  me  all 
right  to  live,  simply  because  I  happen  to  live  in  sur 
roundings  you  don't  approve  of." 

"I'm  not  such  an  egotistical  ass  as  to  imagine  a 
woman  of  your  sort  could  be  genuinely  in  love  with  a 
man  of  my  sort,"  replied  he.  "So,  I'll  see  to  it  that  we 

261 


THE   CONFLICT 


keep  away  from  each  other.     I  don't  wish  to  be  tempted 
to  do  you  mischief." 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

But  he  did  not  explain.  He  said:  "And  you  are 
going  now.  And  we  shall  not  meet  again  except  by 
accident." 

She  gave  a  sigh  of  hopelessness.  "I  suppose  I  have 
lowered  myself  in  your  eyes  by  being  so  frank — by 
showing  and  speaking  what  I  felt,"  she  said  mourn 
fully. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  rejoined  he.  "A  man  who  is 
anybody  or  has  anything  soon  gets  used  to  frankness 
in  women.  I  could  hardly  have  gotten  past  thirty,  in 
a  more  or  less  conspicuous  position,  without  having  had 
some  experience.  .  .  .  and  without  learning  not  to 
attach  too  much  importance  to — to  frankness  in 
women." 

She  winced  again.  "You  wouldn't  say  those  things 
if  you  knew  how  they  hurt,"  she  said.  "If  I  didn't 
care  for  you,  could  I  sit  here  and  let  you  laugh  at 
me?" 

"Yes,  you  could,"  answered  he.  "Hoping  somehow 
or  other  to  turn  the  laugh  upon  me  later  on.  But 
really  I  was  not  laughing  at  you.  And  you  can  spare 
yourself  the  effort  of  convincing  me  that  you're  sin 
cere."  He  was  frankly  laughing  at  her  now.  "You 
don't  understand  the  situation — not  at  all.  You  fancy 
that  I  am  hanging  back  because  I  am  overwhelmed  or 
shy  or  timid.  I  assure  you  I'-ve  never  been  shy  or 

262 


THE   CONFLICT 


timid  about  anything  I  wanted.  If  I  wanted  you — 
I'd— take  you." 

She  caught  her  breath  and  shrank.  Looking  at  him 
as  he  said  that,  calmly  and  confidently,  she,  for  the 
first  time,  was  in  love — and  was  afraid.  Back  to  her 
came  Selma's  warnings:  "One  may  not  trifle  with 
love.  A  woman  conquers  only  by  surrender." 

"But,  as  I  said  to  you  a  while  ago,"  he  went  on,  "I 
don't  want  you — or  any  woman.  I've  no  time  for  mar 
riage — no  time  for  a  flirtation.  And  though  you 
tempt  me  strongly,  I  like  you  too  well  to — to  treat 
you  as  you  invite." 

Jane  sat  motionless,  stunned  by  the  sudden  turning 
of  the  tables.  She  who  had  come  to  conquer — to  amuse 
herself,  to  evoke  a  strong,  hopeless  passion  that  would 
give  her  a  delightful  sense  of  warmth  as  she  stood 
safely  by  its  bright  flames — she  had  been  conquered. 
She  belonged  to  this  man;  all  he  had  to  do  was  to 
claim  her. 

In  a  low  voice,  sweet  and  sincere  beyond  any  that 
had  ever  come  from  her  lips  before,  she  said : 

"Anything,  Victor — anything — but  don't  send  me 
away." 

And  he,  seeing  and  hearing,  lost  his  boasted  self- 
control.  "Go — go,"  he  cried  harshly.  "If  you  don't 

go "  He  came  round  the  table,  seizing  her  as  she 

rose,  kissed  her  upon  the  lips,  upon  the  eyes.  "You 
are  lovely — lovely!"  he  murmured.  "And  I  who  can't 
have  flowers  on  my  table  or  in  sight  when  I've  got  any- 

263 


THE    CONFLICT 


thing  serious  to  do — I  love  your  perfume  and  your 
color  and  the  wonderful  softness  of  you " 

He  pushed  her  away.  "Now — will  you  go?"  he 
cried. 

His  eyes  were  flashing.  And  she  was  trembling  from 
head  to  foot.  She  was  gazing  at  him  with  a  fascinated 
expression.  "I  understand  what  you  meant  when  you 
warned  me  to  go,"  she  said.  "I  didn't  believe  it,  but 
it  was  so." 

"Go — I  tell  you !"  he  ordered. 

"It's  too  late,"  said  she.  "You  can't  send  me  away 
now — for  you  have  kissed  me.  If  I'm  in  your  power, 
you're  in  my  power,  too." 

Moved  by  the  same  impulse  both  looked  up  the  arbor 
toward  the  rear  door  of  the  house.  There  stood  Selma 
Gordon,  regarding  them  with  an  expression  of  anger 
as  wild  as  the  blood  of  the  steppes  that  flowed  in  her 
veins.  Victor,  with  what  composure  he  could  master, 
put  out  his  hand  in  farewell  to  Jane.  He  had  been  too 
absorbed  in  the  emotions  raging  between  him  and  her 
to  note  Selma's  expression.  But  Jane,  the  woman,  had 
seen.  As  she  shook  hands  with  Victor,  she  said  neither 
high  nor  low : 

"Selma  knows  that  I  care.  I  told  her  the  night  of 
the  riot." 

"Good-by,"  said  Victor  in  a  tone  she  thought  it 
wise  not  to  dispute. 

"I'll  be  in  the  woods  above  the  park  at  ten  to 
morrow,"  she  said  in  an  undertone.  Then  to  Selma, 

264, 


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unsmilingly:  "You're  not  interrupting.  I'm  going." 
Selma  advanced.  The  two  girls  looked  frank  hos 
tility  into  each  other's  eyes.  Jane  did  not  try  to  shake 
hands  with  her.  With  a  nod  and  a  forced  smile  of  con 
ventional  friendliness  upon  her  lips,  she  passed  her  and 
went  through  the  house  and  into  the  street. 

She  lingered  at  the  gate,  opening  and  closing  it  in  a 
most  leisurely  fashion — a  significantly  different  exit 
from  her  furtive  and  ashamed  entrance.  Love  and 
revolt  were  running  high  and  hot  in  her  veins.  She 
longed  openly  to  defy  the  world — her  world. 


VII 


Impulse  was  the  dominant  strain  in  Selma  Gordon's 
character — impulse  and  frankness.  But  she  was  afraid 
of  Victor  Dorn  as  we  all  are  afraid  of  those  we  deeply 
respect — those  whose  respect  is  the  mainstay  of  our 
self-confidence.  She  was  moving  toward  him  to  pour 
out  the  violence  that  was  raging  in  her  on  the  subject 
of  this  flirtation  of  Jane  Hastings.  The  spectacle  of 
a  useless  and  insincere  creature  like  that  trifling  with 
her  deity,  and  being  permitted  to  trifle,  was  more  than 
she  could  endure.  But  Victor,  dropping  listlessly  to  his 
chair  and  reaching  for  his  pencil,  was  somehow  a  check 
upon  her  impetuousness.  She  paused  long  enough  to 
think  the  sobering  second  thought.  To  speak  would 
be  both  an  impertinence  and  a  folly.  She  owed  it  to 
the  cause  and  to  her  friend  Victor  to  speak;  but  to 
speak  at  the  wrong  time  and  in  the  wrong  way  would 
bexworse  than  silence. 

Said  he:  "I  was  finishing  this  when  she  came.  I'll 
be  done  in  a  minute.  Please  read  what  I've  written  and 
tell  me  what  you  think." 

Selma  took  up  the  loose  sheets  of  manuscript  and 
stood  reading  his  inaugural  of  the  new  New  T)ay.  As 
she  read  she  forgot  the  petty  matter  that  had  so  agi 
tated  her  a  moment  before.  This  salutatory — this 

266 


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address  to  the  working  class — this  plan  of  a  campaign 
to  take  Remsen  City  out  of  the  hands  of  its  exploiters 
and  despoilers  and  make  it  a  city  fit  for  civilized  resi 
dence  and  worthy  of  its  population  of  intelligent,  pro 
gressive  workingmen — this  leading  editorial  for  the 
first  number  was  Victor  Dorn  at  his  greatest  and  best. 
The  man  of  action  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a 
dreamer.  The  shrewd,  practical  politician  with  the 
outlook  of  a  statesman.  How  honest  and  impassioned 
he  was;  yet  how  free  from  folly  and  cant.  Several 
times  as  she  read  Selma  lifted  her  eyes  to  look  at  him 
in  generous,  worshipful  admiration.  She  would  not 
have  dared  let  him  see ;  she  would  not  have  dared  speak 
the  phrases  of  adoration  of  his  genius  that  crowded 
to  her  lips.  How  he  would  have  laughed  at  her — he 
who  thought  about  himself  as  a  personality  not  at  all, 
but  only  as  an  instrument. 

"Here's  the  rest  of  it,"  said  he,  throwing  himself 
back  in  his  chair  and  relighting  his  pipe. 

She  finished  a  moment  later,  said  as  she  laid  the 
manuscript  on  the  table :  "That's  the  best  you've  ever 
done." 

"I  think  so,"  agreed  he.  "It  seems  to  me  I've  got  a 
new  grip  on  things.  I  needed  a  turn  such  as  your 
friend  Davy  Hull  gave  me.  Nothing  like  rivalry  to 
spur  a  man  on.  The  old  crowd  was  so  stupid — cun 
ning,  but  stupid.  But  Hull  injects  a  new  element  into 
the  struggle.  To  beat  him  we've  got  to  use  our  best 
brains." 

267 


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"We've  got  to  attack  him,"  said  Selma.  "After 
all,  he  is  the  enemy.  We  can't  let  him  disarm  us  by 
an  act  of  justice." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Victor.  "But  we'll  have  to  be 
careful.  Here's  what  I'm  going  to  carry  on  the  first 
page." 

He  held  up  a  sheet  of  paper  on  which  he  had  written 
with  a  view  to  effective  display  the  names  of  the  four 
most  offensive  local  corporations  with  their  contribu 
tion — $25,000  each — to  the  campaign  fund  of  the 
Citizens'  Alliance.  "Under  it,  in  big  type,"  proceeded 
he,  "we'll  carry  a  line  asking,  'Is  the  Citizens'  Alliance 
fooling  these  four  corporations  or  is  it  fooling  the 
people?'  I  think  that  will  be  more  effective  than  col 
umns  of  attack." 

"We  ought  to  get  that  out  on  wall-bills  and  dodgers," 
suggested  Selma,  "and  deluge  the  town  with  it  once  or 
twice  a  week  until  election." 

"Splendid !"  exclaimed  Victor.  "I'll  make  a  practical 
politician  of  you  yet." 

Colman  and  Harbinger  and  Jocelyn  and  several 
others  of  the  League  leaders  came  in  one  at  a  time, 
and  the  plan  of  campaign  was  developed  in  detail.  But 
the  force  they  chiefly  relied  upon  was  the  influence  of 
their  twelve  hundred  men,  their  four  or  five  thousand 
women  and  young  men  and  girls,  talking  every  day 
and  evening,  each  man  or  woman  or  youth  with  those 
with  whom  he  came  into  contact.  This  "army  of  edu 
cation"  was  disciplined,  was  educated,  knew  just  what 

268 


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arguments  to  use,  had  been  cautioned  against  disputes, 
against  arousing  foolish  antagonisms.  The  League  had 
nothing  to  conceal,  no  object  to  gain  but  the  govern 
ment  of  Remsen  City  by  and  for  its  citizens — well 
paved,  well  lighted,  clean  streets,  sanitary  houses,  good 
and  clean  street  car  service,  honest  gas,  pure  water, 
plenty  of  good  schools — that  first  of  all.  The  "reform 
crowd" — the  Citizens'  Alliance — like  every  reform  party 
of  the  past,  proposed  to  do  practically  the  same  things. 
But  the  League  met  this  with:  "Why  should  we  elect 
an  upper  class  government  to  do  for  us  what  we  ought 
to  do  for  ourselves?  And  how  can  they  redeem  their 
promises  when  they  are  tied  up  in  a  hundred  ways  to 
the  very  people  who  have  been  robbing  and  cheat 
ing  us?" 

There  were  to  be  issues  of  the  New  Day;  there  were 
to  be  posters  and  dodgers,  public  meetings  in  halls,  in 
squares,  on  street  corners.  But  the  main  reliance  now 
as  always  was  this  educated  "army  of  education" — 
these  six  thousand  missionaries,  each  one  of  them  in 
resolute  earnest  and  bent  upon  converting  his  neigh 
bors  on  either  side,  and  across  the  street  as  well.  A 
large  part  of  the  time  the  leaders  could  spare  from 
making  a  living  was  spent  in  working  at  this  army, 
in  teaching  it  new  arguments  or  better  ways  of  pre 
senting  old  arguments,  in  giving  the  enthusiasm,  in 
talking  with  each  individual  soldier  of  it  and  raising 
his  standard  of  efficiency.  Nor  could  the  employers 
of  these  soldiers  of  Victor  Dorn's  complain  that  they 
18  269 


THE   CONFLICT 


shirked  their  work  for  politics.  It  was  a  fact  that 
could  not  be  denied  that  the  members  of  the  Working- 
men's  League  were  far  and  away  the  best  workers  in 
Remsen  City,  got  the  best  pay,  and  earned  it,  drank 
less,  took  fewer  days  off  on  account  of  sickness.  One 
of  the  sneers  of  the  Kelly-House  gang  was  that  "those 
Dorn  cranks  think  they  are  aristocrats,  a  little  better 
than  us  common,  ordinary  laboring  men."  And  the 
sneer  was  not  without  effect.  The  truth  was,  Dorn 
and  his  associates  had  not  picked  out  the  best  of  the 
working  class  and  drawn  it  into  the  League,  but  had 
made  those  who  joined  the  League  better  workers, 
better  family  men,  better  citizens. 

"We  are  saying  that  the  working  class  ought  to 
run  things,"  Dorn  said  again  and  again  in  his  talks, 
public  and  private.  "Then,  we've  got  to  show  the 
community  that  we're  fit  to  run  things.  That  is  why 
the  League  expels  any  man  who  shirks  or  is  a  drunk 
ard  or  a  crook  or  a  bad  husband  and  father." 

The  great  fight  of  the  League — the  fight  that  was 
keeping  it  from  power — was  with  the  trades  unions, 
which  were  run  by  secret  agents  of  the  Kelly-House 
oligarchy.  Kelly  and  the  Republican  party  rather 
favored  "open  shop"  or  "scab"  labor — the  right  of  an 
American  to  let  his  labor  to  whom  he  pleased  on  what 
terms  he  pleased.  The  Kelly  orators  waxed  almost 
tearful  as  they  contemplated  the  outrage  of  any  inter 
ference  with  the  ancient  liberty  of  the  American  citi 
zen.  Kelly  disguised  as  House  was  a  hot  union  man. 

270 


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He  loathed  the  "scab."  He  jeered  at  the  idea  that  a 
laborer  ought  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  the  powerful  em 
ployer  who  could  dictate  his  own  terms,  which  the 
laborers  might  not  refuse  under  stress  of  hunger. 
Thus  the  larger  part  of  the  "free"  labor  in  Remsen 
City  voted  with  Kelly — was  bought  by  him  at  so  much 
a  head.  The  only  organization  it  had  was  under  the 
Kelly  district  captains.  Union  labor  was  almost  solidly 
Democratic — except  in  Presidential  elections,  when  it 
usually  divided  on  the  tariff  question. 

Although  almost  all  the  Leaguers  were  members  of 
the  unions,  Kelly  and  House  saw  to  it  that  they  had 
no  influence  in  union  councils.  That  is,  until  recently 
Kelly-House  had  been  able  to  accomplish  this.  But 
they  were  seeing  the  approaching  end  of  their  domina 
tion.  The  "army  of  education"  was  proving  too  pow 
erful  for  them.  And  they  felt  that  at  the  coming 
election  the  decline  of  their  power  would  be  apparent 
— unless  something  drastic  were  done. 

They  had  attempted  it  in  the  riot.  The  riot  had 
been  a  fizzle — thanks  to  the  interposition  of  the  per 
sonal  ambition  of  the  until  then  despised  "holy  boy," 
David  Hull.  Kelly,  the  shrewd,  at  once  saw  the  mark 
of  the  man  of  force.  He  resolved  that  Hull  should  be 
elected.  He  had  intended  simply  to  use  him  to  elect 
Hugo  Galland  judge  and  to  split  up  the  rest  of  the 
tickets  in  such  a  way  that  some  Leaguers  and  some 
reformers  would  get  in,  would  be  powerless,  would 
bring  discredit  and  ridicule  upon  their  parties.  But 

271 


THE   CONFLICT 


Hull  was  a  man  who  could  be  useful;  his  cleverness  in 
upsetting  the  plot  against  Dora  and  turning  all  to  his 
advantage  demonstrated  that.  Therefore,  Hull  should 
be  elected  and  passed  up  higher.  It  did  not  enter  his 
calculations  that  Hull  might  prove  refractory,  might 
really  be  all  that  he  professed;  he  had  talked  with 
Davy,  and  while  he  had  underestimated  his  intelligence, 
he  knew  he  had  not  misjudged  his  character.  He 
knew  that  it  was  as  easy  to  "deal"  with  the  Hull  stripe 
of  honest,  high  minded  men  as  it  was  difficult  to  "deal" 
with  the  Victor  Dorn  stripe.  Hull  he  called  a  "sensible 
fellow";  Victor  Dorn  he  called  a  crank.  But — he  re 
spected  Dorn,  while  Hull  he  held  in  much  such  esteem 
as  he  held  his  cigar-holder  and  pocket  knife,  or  Tony 
Rivers  and  Joe  House. 

When  Victor  Dorn  had  first  begun  to  educate  and 
organize  the  people  of  Remsen  City,  the  boss  industry 
was  in  its  early  form.  That  is,  Kelly  and  House  were 
really  rivals  in  the  collecting  of  big  campaign  funds 
by  various  forms  of  blackmail,  in  struggling  for  offices 
for  themselves  and  their  followers,  in  levying  upon  vice 
and  crime  through  the  police.  In  these  ways  they 
made  the  money,  the  lion's  share  of  which  naturally 
fell  to  them  as  leaders,  as  organizers  of  plunder.  But 
that  stage  had  now  passed  in  Remsen  City  as  it  had 
passed  elsewhere,  and  the  boss  industry  had  taken  a 
form  far  more  difficult  to  combat.  Kelly  and  House 
no  longer  especially  cared  whether  Republican  party 
or  Democratic  won.  Their  business — their  source  of 
,.'*-'.••  272 


THE   CONFLICT 


revenue — had  ceased  to  be  through  carrying  elections, 
had  become  a  matter  of  skill  in  keeping  the  people 
more  or  less  evenly  divided  between  the  two  "regular" 
parties,  with  an  occasional  fake  third  party  to  dis 
courage  and  bring  into  contempt  reform  movers  and 
to  make  the  people  say,  "Well,  bad  as  they  are,  at  least 
the  regulars  aren't  addle-headed,  damn  fools  doing 
nothing  except  to  make  business  bad."  Both  Kelly  and 
House  were  supported  and  enriched  by  the  corpora 
tions  and  by  big  public  contracting  companies  and  by 
real  estate  deals.  Kelly  still  appropriated  a  large  part 
of  the  "campaign  fund."  House,  in  addition,  took  a 
share  of  the  money  raised  by  the  police  from  dives. 
But  these  sums  were  but  a  small  part  of  their  income, 
were  merely  pin  money  for  their  wives  and  children. 

Yet — at  heart  and  in  all  sincerity  Kelly  was  an 
ardent  Republican  and  House  was  a  ferocious  Demo 
crat.  If  you  had  asked  either  what  Republican  and 
Democrat  meant  he  would  have  been  as  vague  and  un 
satisfactory  in  his  reply  as  would  have  been  any  of 
his  followers  bearing  torch  and  oilcloth  cape  in  polit 
ical  processions,  with  no  hope  of  gain — beyond  the 
exquisite  pleasure  of  making  a  shouting  ass  of  him 
self  in  the  most  public  manner.  But  for  all  that, 
Kelly  was  a  Republican  and  House  a  Democrat.  It  is 
not  a  strange,  though  it  is  a  profoundly  mysterious, 
phenomenon,  that  of  the  priest  who  arranges  the  trick 
mechanism  of  the  god,  yet  being  a  devout  believer, 
ready  to  die  for  his  "faith." 

273 


THE   CONFLICT 


Difficult  though  the  task  was  of  showing  the  average 
Remsen  City  man  that  Republican  and  Democrat, 
Kelly  and  House,  were  one  and  the  same  thing,  and 
that  thing  a  blood-sucking,  blood-heavy  leech  upon  his 
veins — difficult  though  this  task  was,  Victor  Dorn  knew 
that  he  had  about  accomplished  it,  when  David  Hull 
appeared.  A  new  personality;  a  plausible  personality, 
deceptive  because  self-deceiving — yet  not  so  thoroughly 
self-deceived  that  it  was  in  danger  of  hindering  its  own 
ambition.  David  Hull — just  the  kind  of  respectable, 
popular  figurehead  and  cloak  the  desperate  Kelly- 
House  conspiracy  needed. 

How  far  had  the  "army  of  education"  prepared  the 
people  for  seeing  through  this  clever  new  fraud  upon 
them?  Victor  Dorn  could  not  judge.  He  hoped  for 
the  best ;  he  was  prepared  for  the  worst. 

The  better  to  think  out  the  various  problems  of  the 
new  situation,  complicated  by  his  apparent  debt  of 
gratitude  to  Davy,  Victor  went  forth  into  the  woods 
very  early  the  next  morning.  He  wandered  far,  but 
ten  o'clock  found  him  walking  in  the  path  in  the  strip 
of  woods  near  the  high  road  along  the  upper  side  of 
the  park.  And  when  Jane  Hastings  appeared,  he  was 
standing  looking  in  the  direction  from  which  she  would 
have  to  come.  It  was  significant  of  her  state  of  mind 
that  she  had  given  small  attention  to  her  dress  that 
morning.  Nor  was  she  looking  her  best  in  expression 
or  in  color.  Her  eyes  and  her  skin  suggested  an  almost 
sleepless  night. 

274 


THE   CONFLICT 


He  did  not  advance.  She  came  rapidly  as  if  eager 
to  get  over  that  embarrassing  space  in  which  each 
could  see  the  other,  yet  neither  could  speak  without 
raising  the  voice.  When  she  was  near  she  said : 

"You  think  you  owe  something  to  Davy  Hull  for 
what  he  did?" 

"The  people  think  so,"  said  he.  "And  that's  the 
important  thing." 

"Well — you  owe  him  nothing,"  pursued  she. 

"Nothing  that  would  interfere  with  the  cause,"  re 
plied  he.  "And  that  would  be  true,  no  matter  what 
he  had  done." 

"I  mean  he  did  nothing  for  you,"  she  explained. 
"I  forgot  to  tell  you  yesterday.  The  whole  thing  was 
simply  a  move  to  further  his  ambition.  I  happened 
to  be  there  when  he  talked  with  father  and  en 
listed  him." 

Victor  laughed.  "It  was  your  father  who  put  it 
through.  I  might  have  known !" 

"At  first  I  tried  to  interpose.  Then — I  stopped." 
She  stood  before  him  with  eyes  down.  "It  came  to  me 
that  for  my  own  sake  it  would  be  better  that  you 
should  lose  this  fall.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  you  won 
you  would  be  farther  out  of  my  reach."  She  paused, 
went  steadily  on :  "It  was  a  bad  feeling  I  had  that 
you  must  not  get  anything  except  with  my  help.  Do 
you  understand?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  he  cheerfully.  "You  are  your 
father's  own  daughter." 

275 


THE    CONFLICT 


"I  love  power,"  said  she.  "And  so  do  you.  Only, 
being  a  woman,  I'd  stoop  to  things  to  get  it,  that  a 
man — at  least  your  sort  of  man — would  scorn.  Do 
you  despise  me  for  that?  You  oughtn't  to.  And  you 
will  teach  me  better.  You  can  make  of  me  what  you 
please,  as  I  told  you  yesterday.  I  only  half  meant  it 
then.  Now — it's  true,  through  and  through." 

Victor  glanced  round,  saw  near  at  hand  the  bench 
he  was  seeking.  "Let's  sit  down  here,"  said  he.  "I'm 
rather  tired.  I  slept  little  and  I've  been  walking  all 
morning.  And  you  look  tired,  also." 

"After  yesterday  afternoon  I  couldn't  sleep,"  said 
she; 

When  they  were  seated  he  looked  at  her  with  an 
expression  that  seemed  to  say:  "I  have  thrown  open 
the  windows  of  my  soul.  Throw  open  yours ;  and  let 
us  look  at  each  other  as  we  are,  and  speak  of  things 
as  they  are."  She  suddenly  flung  herself  against  his 
breast  and  as  he  clasped  her  she  said : 

"No — no !  Let's  not  reason  coldly  about  things, 
Victor.  Let's  feel— let's  live!" 

It  was  several  minutes — and  not  until  they  had 
kissed  many  times — before  he  regained  enough  self- 
control  to  say:  "This  simply  will  not  do,  Jane.  How 
can  we  discuss  things  calmly?  You  sit  there" — he 
pushed  her  gently  to  one  end  of  the  bench — "and  I'll 
sit  at  this  end.  Now !" 

"I  love  you,  Victor !  With  your  arms  round  me  I 
am  happy — and  so  strong !" 

276 


THE    CONFLICT 


"With  my  arms  round  you  I'm  happy,  I'll  ad 
mit,"  said  he.  "But — oh,  so  weak!  I  have  the 
sense  that  I  am  doing  wrong — that  we  are  both  doing 
wrong." 

"Why?     Aren't  you  free?" 

"No,  I  am  not  free.  As  I've  told  you,  I  belong  to 
a  cause — to  a  career." 

"But  I  won't  hinder  you  there.    I'll  help  you." 

"Why  go  over  that  again?  You  know  better — I 
know  better."  Abruptly,  "Your  father — what  time 
does  he  get  home  for  dinner?" 

"He  didn't  go  down  town  to-day,"  replied  Jane. 
"He's  not  well— not  at  all  well." 

Victor  looked  baffled.  "I  was  about  to  propose  that 
we  go  straight  to  him." 

If  he  had  been  looking  at  Jane,  he  might  have  seen 
the  fleeting  flash  of  an  expression  that  betrayed  that 
she  had  suspected  the  object  of  his  inquiry. 

"You  will  not  go  with  me  to  your  father?" 

"Not  when  he  is  ill,"  said  she.  "If  we  told  him,  it 
might  kill  him.  He  has  ambitions — what  he  regards 
as  ambitions — for  me.  He  admires  you,  but — he 
doesn't  admire  your  ideas." 

"Then,"  said  Victor,  following  his  own  train  of 
thought,  "we  must  fight  this  out  between  ourselves.  I 
was  hoping  I'd  have  your  father  to  help  me.  I'm  sure, 
as  soon  as  you  faced  him  with  me,  you'd  realize  that 
your  feeling  about  me  is  largely  a  delusion." 

"And  you?"  said  Jane  softly.  "Your  feeling  about 
277 


THE    CONFLICT 


me — the  feeling  that  made  you  kiss  me — was  that  delu 
sion?" 

"It  was — just  what  you  saw,"  replied  he,  "and  noth 
ing  more.  The  idea  of  marrying  you — of  living  my 
life  with  you  doesn't  attract  me  in  the  least.  I  can't 
see  you  as  my  wife."  He  looked  at  her  impatiently. 
"Have  you  no  imagination?  Can't  you  see  that  you 
could  not  change,  and  become  what  you'd  have  to  be 
if  you  lived  with  me?" 

"You  can  make  of  me  what  you  please,"  repeated 
she  with  loving  obstinacy. 

"That  is  not  sincere!"  cried  he.  "You  may  think 
it  is,  but  it  isn't.  Look  at  me,  Jane." 

"I  haven't  been  doing  anything  else  since  we  met," 
laughed  she. 

"That's  better,"  said  he.  "Let's  not  be  solemn. 
Solemnity  is  pose,  and  when  people  are  posing  they 
get  nowhere.  You  say  I  can  make  of  you  what  I 
please.  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  willing  to  become 
a  woman  of  my  class — to  be  that  all  your  life — to 
bring  up  your  children  in  that  way — to  give  up  your 
fashionable  friends — and  maid — and  carriages — and 
Paris  clothes — to  be  a  woman  who  would  not  make  my 
associates  and  their  families  uncomfortable  and  shy?" 

She  was  silent.  She  tried  to  speak,  but  lifting  her 
eyes  before  she  began  her  glance  encountered  his  and 
her  words  died  upon  her  lips. 

"You  know  you  did  not  mean  that,"  pursued  he. 
"Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  you  did  mean.  You  meant 


THE    CONFLICT 


that  after  you  and  I  were  married — or  engaged — per 
haps  you  did  not  intend  to  go  quite  so  far  as  marriage 
just  yet." 

The  color  crept  into  her  averted  face. 

"Look  at  me !"  he  commanded  laughingly. 

With  an  effort  she  forced  her  eyes  to  meet  his. 

"Now— smile,  Jane!" 

His  smile  was  contagious.  The  curve  of  her  lips 
changed ;  her  eyes  gleamed. 

"Am  I  not  reading  your  thoughts  ?"  said  he. 

"You  are  very  clever,  Victor,"  admitted  she. 

"Good.  We  are  getting  on.  You  believed  that,  once 
we  were  engaged,  I  would  gradually  begin  to  yield,  to 
come  round  to  your  way  of  thinking.  You  had  planned 
for  me  a  career  something  like  Davy  Hull's — only 
freer  and  bolder.  I  would  become  a  member  of  your 
class,  but  would  pose  as  a  representative  of  the  class  I 
had  personally  abandoned.  Am  I  right?" 

"Go  on,  Victor,"  she  said. 

"That's  about  all.  Now,  there  are  just  two  objec 
tions  to  your  plan.  The  first  is,  it  wouldn't  work.  My 
associates  would  be  'on  to'  me  in  a  very  short  time. 
They  are  shrewd,  practical,  practically  educated  men 
— not  at  all  the  sort  that  follow  Davy  Hull  or  are 
wearing  Kelly's  and  House's  nose  rings.  In  a  few 
months  I'd  find  myself  a  leader  without  a  follow 
ing — and  what  is  more  futile  and  ridiculous  than 
that?" 

"They  worship  you,"  said  Jane.  "They  trust  you 
279 


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implicitly.  They  know  that  whatever  you  did  would 
be  for  their  good." 

He  laughed  heartily.  "How  little  you  know  my 
friends,"  said  he.  "I  am  their  leader  only  because  I 
am  working  with  them,  doing  what  we  all  see  must  be 
done,  doing  it  in  the  way  in  which  we  all  see  it  must 
be  done." 

"But  that  is  not  power !"  cried  Jane. 

"No,"  replied  Victor.  "But  it  is  the  career  I  wish — 
the  only  one  I'd  have.  Power  means  that  one's  follow 
ers  are  weak  or  misled  or  ignorant.  To  be  first  among 
equals — that's  worth  while.  The  other  thing  is  the 
poor  tawdriness  that  kings  and  bosses  crave  and  that 
shallow,  snobbish  people  admire." 

"I  see  that,"  said  Jane.  "At  least,  I  begin  to  see 
it.  How  wonderful  you  are!" 

Victor  laughed.  "Is  it  that  I  know  so  much,  or  is 
it  that  you  know  so  little?" 

"You  don't  like  for  me  to  tell  you  that  I  admire 
you?"  said  Jane,  subtle  and  ostentatiously  timid. 

"I  don't  care  much  about  it  one  way  or  the  other," 
replied  Victor,  who  had,  when  he  chose,  a  rare  ability 
to  be  blunt  without  being  rude.  "Years  ago,  for  my 
own  safety,  I  began  to  train  myself  to  care  little  for 
any  praise  or  blame  but  my  own,  and  to  make  myself 
a  very  searching  critic  of  myself.  So,  I  am  really  flat 
tered  only  when  I  win  my  own  praise — and  I  don't 
often  have  that  pleasure." 

"Really,  I  don't  see  why  you  bother  with  me,"  said 
280 


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she  with  sly  innocence — which  was  as  far  as  she  dared 
let  her  resentments  go. 

"For  two  reasons,"  ^replied  he  promptly.  "It  flatters 
me  that  you  are  interested  in  me.  The  second  reason 
is  that,  when  I  lost  control  of  myself  yesterday,  I  in 
volved  myself  in  certain  responsibilities  to  you.  It 
has  seemed  to  me  that  I  owe  it  to  myself  and  to  you 
to  make  you  see  that  there  is  neither  present  nor  future 
in  any  relations  between  us." 

She  put  out  her  hand,  and  before  he  knew  what  he 
was  doing  he  had  clasped  it.  With  a  gentle,  trium 
phant  smile  she  said:  "There's  the  answer  to  all  your 
reasoning,  Victor." 

He  released  her  hand.  "An  answer,"  he  said,  "but 
not  the  correct  answer."  He  eyed  her  thoughtfully. 
"You  have  done  me  a  great  service,"  he  went  on.  "You 
have  shown  me  an  unsuspected,  a  dangerous  weakness 
in  myself.  At  another  time — and  coming  in  another 
way,  I  might  have  made  a  mess  of  my  career — and  of 
the  things  that  have  been  entrusted  to  me."  A  long 
pause,  then  he  added,  to  himself  rather  than  to  her, 
"I  must  look  out  for  that.  I  must  do  something 
about  it." 

Jane  turned  toward  him  and  settled  herself  in  a 
resolute  attitude  and  with  a  resolute  expression.  "Vic 
tor,"  she  said,  "I've  listened  to  you  very  patiently. 
Now  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me.  What  is  the  truth 
about  us  ?  Why,  that  we  are  as  if  we  had  been  made  for 
each  other.  I  don't  know  as  much  as  you  do.  I've 

281 


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led  a  much  narrower  life.  I've  been  absurdly  mis- 
educated.  But  as  soon  as  I  saw  you  I  felt  that  I  had 
found  the  man  I  was  looking  for.  And  I  believe — I 
feel — I  know  you  were  drawn  to  me  in  the  same  way. 
Isn't  that  so?" 

"You — fascinated  me,"  confessed  he.  "You — or 
your  clothes — or  your  perfume." 

"Explain  it  as  you  like,"  said  she.  "The  fact  re 
mains  that  we  were  drawn  together.  Well — Victor,  / 
am  not  afraid  to  face  the  future,  as  fate  maps  it  out 
for  us.  Are  you?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"You — afraid,"  she  went  on.  "No — you  couldn't 
be  afraid." 

A  long  silence.  Then  he  said  abruptly :  "//  we  loved 
each  other.  But  I  know  that  we  don't.  I  know  that 
you  would  hate  me  when  you  realized  that  you  couldn't 
move  me.  And  I  know  that  I  should  soon  get  over  the 
infatuation  for  you.  As  soon  as  it  became  a  question 
of  sympathies — common  tastes — congeniality — I'd  find 
you  hopelessly  lacking." 

She  felt  that  he  was  contrasting  her  with  some  one 
else — with  a  certain  some  one.  And  she  veiled  her  eyes 
to  hide  their  blazing  jealousy.  A  movement  on  his 
part  made  her  raise  them  in  sudden  alarm.  He  had 
risen.  His  expression  told  her  that  the  battle  was 
lost — for  the  day.  Never  had  she  loved  him  as  at  that 
moment,  and  never  had  longing  to  possess  him  so  domi 
nated  her  willful,  self-indulgent,  spoiled  nature.  Yet  she 

282 


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hated  him,  too;  she  longed  to  crush  him,  to  make  him 
suffer — to  repay  him  with  interest  for  the  suffering 
he  was  inflicting  upon  her — the  humiliation.  But  she 
dared  not  show  her  feelings.  It  would  be  idle  to  try 
upon  this  man  any  of  the  coquetries  indicated  for  such 
cases — to  dismiss  him  coldly,  or  to  make  an  appeal 
through  an  exhibition  of  weakness  or  reckless  passion. 

"You  will  see  the  truth,  for  yourself,  as  you  think 
things  over,"  said  he. 

She  rose,  stood  before  him  with  downcast  eyes,  with 
mouth  sad  and  sweet.  "No,"  she  said,  "It's  you  who 
are  hiding  the  truth  from  yourself.  I  hope — for  both 
our  sakes — that  you'll  see  it — before  long.  Good-by — 
dear."  She  stretched  out  her  hand. 

Hesitatingly  he  took  it.  As  their  hands  met,  her 
pulse  beating  against  his,  she  lifted  her  eyes.  And 
once  more  he  was  holding  her  close,  was  kissing  her. 
And  she  was  lying  in  his  arms  unresisting,  with  two 
large  tears  shining  in  the  long  lashes  of  her  closed  eyes. 

"Oh,  Jane — forgive  me!"  he  cried,  releasing  her.  "I 
must  keep  away  from  you.  I  will — I  will!"  And  he 
was  rushing  down  the  steep  slope — direct,  swift,  re 
lentless.  But  she,  looking  after  him  with  a  tender, 
dreamy  smile,  murmured :  "He  loves  me.  He  will  come 
again.  If  not — I'll  go  and  get  him!" 

To  Jane  Victor  Dora's  analysis  of  his  feeling  toward 
her  and  of  the  reasons  against  yielding  to  it  seemed  of 
no  importance  whatever.  Side  by  side  with  Selma's 

283 


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"One  may  not  trifle  with  love"  she  would  have  put  "In 
matters  of  love  one  does  not  reason,"  as  equally  axio 
matic.  Victor  was  simply  talking;  love  would  conquer 
him  as  it  had  conquered  every  man  and  every  woman  it 
had  ever  entered.  Love — blind,  unreasoning,  irresist 
ible — would  have  its  will  and  its  way. 

And  about  most  men  she  would  have  been  right — 
about  any  man  practically,  of  the  preceding  generation. 
But  Victor  represented  a  new  type  of  human  being — 
the  type  into  whose  life  reason  enters  not  merely  as  a 
theoretical  force,  to  be  consulted  and  disregarded,  but 
as  an  authority,  a  powerful  influence,  dominant  in  all 
crucial  matters.  Only  in  our  own  time  has  science  be 
gun  to  make  a  notable  impression  upon  the  fog  which 
formerly  lay  over  the  whole  human  mind,  thicker  here, 
thinner  there,  a  mere  haze  yonder,  but  present  every 
where.  This  fog  made  clear  vision  impossible,  usually 
made  seeing  of  any  kind  difficult ;  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  finding  a  distinct  line  between  truth  and  error 
as  to  any  subject.  And  reason  seemed  almost  as  faulty 
a  guide  as  feeling — was  by  many  regarded  as  more 
faulty,  not  without  justification. 

But  nowadays  for  some  of  us  there  are  clear  or 
almost  clear  horizons,  and  such  fog  banks  as  there  are 
conceal  from  them  nothing  that  is  of  importance  in 
shaping  a  rational  course  of  life.  Victor  Dorn  was  one 
of  these  emancipated  few.  All  successful  men  form 
their  lives  upon  a  system  of  some  kind.  Even  those 
who  seem  to  live  at  haphazard,  like  the  multitude,  prove 

284 


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to  have  chart  and  compass  and  definite  port  in  objec 
tive  when  their  conduct  is  more  attentively  examined. 
Victor  Dora's  system  was  as  perfect  as  it  was  simple, 
and  he  held  himself  to  it  as  rigidly  as  the  father  su 
perior  of  a  Trappist  monastery  holds  his  monks  to  their 
routine.  Also,  Victor  had  learned  to  know  and  to  be 
on  guard  against  those  two  arch-enemies  of  the  man 
who  wishes  to  "get  somewhere" — self-excuse  and  optim 
ism.  He  had  got  a  good  strong  leash  upon  his  vanity 
— and  a  muzzle,  too.  When  things  went  wrong  he  in 
stantly  blamed  himself,  and  did  not  rest  until  he  had 
ferreted  out  the  stupidity  or  folly  of  which  he  had  been 
guilty.  He  did  not  grieve  over  his  failures;  he  held 
severely  scientific  post  mortems  upon  them  to  discover 
the  reason  why — in  order  that  there  should  not  again 
be  that  particular  kind  of  failure  at  least.  Then,  as 
to  the  other  arch-enemy,  optimism,  he  simply  cut  him 
self  off  from  indulgence  in  it.  He  worked  for  success ; 
he  assumed  failure.  He  taught  himself  to  care  noth 
ing  about  success,  but  only  about  doing  as  intelligently 
and  as  thoroughly  as  he  could  the  thing  next  at  hand. 

What  has  all  this  to  do  with  his  infatuation  for  Jane? 
It  serves  to  show  not  only  why  the  Workingmen's 
League  was  growing  like  a  plague  of  gypsy  moth,  but 
also  why  Victor  Dora  was  not  the  man  to  be  conquered 
by  passion.  Naturally,  Jane,  who  had  only  the  vaguest 
conception  of  the  size  and  power  of  Victor  Dora's  mind, 
could  not  comprehend  wherein  lay  the  difference  be 
tween  him  and  the  men  she  read  about  in  novels  or  met 
19  285 


THE    CONFLICT 


in  her  wanderings  among  the  people  of  her  own  class 
in  various  parts  of  the  earth.  It  is  possible  for  even 
the  humblest  of  us  to  understand  genius,  just  as  it  is 
possible  to  view  a  mountain  from  all  sides  and  get  a 
clear  idea  of  it?  bulk  and  its  dominion.  But  the  hasty 
traveler  contents  himself  with  a  glance,  a  "How  su 
perb,"  and  a  quick  passing  on;  and  most  of  us  are 
hasty  travelers  in  the  scenic  land  of  intellectuality. 
Jane  saw  that  he  was  a  great  man.  But  she  was 
deceived  by  his  frankness  and  his  simplicity.  She 
evoked  in  him  only  the  emotional  side  of  his  nature, 
only  one  part  of  that.  Because  it — the  only  phase  of 
him  she  attentively  examined — was  so  impressive,  she 
assumed  that  it  was  the  chief  feature  of  the  man. 

Also,  young  and  inexperienced  women —  and  women 
not  so  young,  and  with  opportunity  to  become  less  in 
experienced  but  without  the  ability  to  learn  by  ex 
perience — always  exaggerate  the  importance  of  passion. 
Almost  without  exception,  it  is  by  way  of  passion  that 
a  man  and  a  woman  approach  each  other.  It  is,  of 
necessity,  the  exterior  that  first  comes  into  view.  Thus, 
all  that  youth  and  inexperience  can  know  about  love 
is  its  aspect  of  passion.  Because  Jane  had  again  and 
sigain  in  her  five  grown-up  years  experienced  men  fall 
ing  passionately  in  love  with  her,  she  fancied  she  was 
an  expert  in  matters  of  love.  In  fact,  she  had  still 
•everything  to  learn. 

On  the  way  home  she,  assuming  that  the  affair  was 
as  good  as  settled,  that  she  and  Victor  Dorn  were 

286 


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lovers,  was  busy  with  plans  for  the  future.  Victor 
Dorn  had  made  a  shrewd  guess  at  the  state  of  her 
mind.  She  had  no  intention  of  allowing  him  to  pursue 
his  present  career.  That  was  merely  foundation.  With 
the  aid  of  her  love  and  council,  and  of  her  father's 
money  and  influence,  he — he  and  she — would  mount  to 
something  really  worth  while — something  more  than  the 
petty  politics  of  a  third  rate  city  in  the  West.  Wash 
ington  was  the  proper  arena  for  his  talents ;  they  would 
take  the  shortest  route  to  Washington.  No  trouble 
about  bringing  him  around ;  a  man  so  able  and  so 
sensible  as  he  would  not  refuse  the  opportunity  to  do 
good  on  a  grand  scale.  Besides — he  must  be  got  away 
from  his  family,  from  these  doubtless  good  and  kind 
but  certainly  not  very  high  class  associates  of  his, 
and  from  Selma  Gordon.  The  idea  of  his  comparing 
her  with  Selma  Gordon!  He  had  not  done  so  aloud, 
but  she  knew  what  was  in  his  mind.  Yes,  he  must  be 
taken  far  away  from  all  these  provincial  and  narrow 
ing  associations. 

But  all  this  was  mere  detail.  The  big  problem  was 
how  to  bring  her  father  round.  He  couldn't  realize 
what  Victor  Dorn  would  be  after  she  had  taken  him 
in  hand.  He  would  see  only  Victor  Dorn,  the  labor 
agitator  of  Remsen  City,  the  nuisance  who  put  mis 
chievous  motives  into  the  heads  of  "the  hands" — the 
man  who  made  them  think  they  had  heads  when  they 
were  intended  by  the  Almighty  to  be  simply  hands. 
How  reconcile  him  to  the  idea  of  accepting  this  nui- 

287 


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sance,  this  poor,  common  member  of  the  working  class 
as  a  son-in-law,  as  the  husband  of  the  daughter  he 
wished  to  see  married  to  some  one  of  the  "best" 
families  ? 

On  the  face  of  it,  the  thing  was  impossible.  Why, 
then,  did  not  Jane  despair?  For  two  reasons.  In 
the  first  place,  she  was  in  love,  and  that  made  her  an 
optimist.  Somehow  love  would  find  the  way.  But 
the  second  reason — the  one  she  hid  from  herself  deep 
in  the  darkest  sub-cellar  of  her  mind,  was  the  real  rea 
son.  It  is  one  matter  to  wish  for  a  person's  death. 
Only  a  villainous  nature  can  harbor  such  a  wish,  can 
admit  it  except  as  a  hastily  and  slyly  in-crawling  im 
pulse,  to  be  flung  out  the  instant  it  is  discovered.  It 
is  another  matter  to  calculate — very  secretly,  very  un 
consciously — upon  a  death  that  seems  inevitable  any 
how.  Jane  had  only  to  look  at  her  father  to  feel  that 
he  would  not  be  spared  to  her  long.  The  mystery  was 
how  he  had  kept  alive  so  long,  how  he  continued 
to  live  from  day  to  day.  His  stomach  was  gone;  his 
whole  digestive  apparatus  was  in  utter  disorder.  His 
body  had  shriveled  until  he  weighed  no  more  than  a 
baby.  His  pulse  was  so  feeble  that  even  in  the  hot 
weather  he  complained  of  the  cold  and  had  to  be 
wrapped  in  the  heaviest  winter  garments.  Yet  he  lived 
on,  and  his  mind  worked  with  undiminished  vigor. 

When  Jane  reached  home,  the  old  man  was  sitting 
on  the  veranda  in  the  full  sun.  On  his  huge  head  was 
a  fur  cap  pulled  well  down  over  his  ears  and  intensi- 

288 


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fying  the  mortuary,  skull-like  appearance  of  his  face. 
Over  his  ulster  was  an  old-fashioned  Scotch  shawl  such 
as  men  used  to  wear  in  the  days  before  overcoats  came 
into  fashion.  About  his  wasted  legs  was  wrapped  a 
carriage  robe,  and  she  knew  that  there  was  a  hot-water 
bag  under  his  feet.  Beside  him  sat  young  Doctor 
Charlton,  whom  Jane  had  at  last  succeeded  in  induc 
ing  her  father  to  try.  Charlton  did  not  look  or  smell 
like  a  doctor.  He  rather  suggested  a  professional  ath 
lete,  perhaps  a  better  class  prize  fighter.  The  weaz 
ened  old  financier  was  gazing  at  him  with  a  fascinated 
expression — admiring,  envious,  amused. 

Charlton  was  saying: 

"Yes,  you  do  look  like  a  dead  one.  But  that's  only 
another  of  your  tricks  for  fooling  people.  You'll 
live  a  dozen  years  unless  you  commit  suicide.  A  dozen 
years?  Probably  twenty." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  make  sport  of  a  poor 
old  invalid,"  said  Hastings  with  a  grin. 

"Any  man  who  could  stand  a  lunch  of  crackers  and 
milk  for  ten  years  could  outlive  anything,"  retorted 
Charlton.  "No,  you  belong  to  the  old  stock.  You 
used  to  see  'em  around  when  you  were  a  boy.  They 
usually  coughed  and  wheezed,  and  every  time  they  did 
it,  the  family  used  to  get  ready  to  send  for  the  under 
taker.  But  they  lived  on  and  on.  .  When  did  your 
mother  die?" 

"Couple  of  years  ago,"  said  Hastings. 

"And  your  father?" 

289 


THE   CONFLICT 


"He  was  killed  by  a  colt  he  was  breaking  at  sixty- 
seven." 

Charlton  laughed  uproariously.  "If  you  took  walks 
and  rides  instead  of  always  sitting  round,  you  never 
would  die,"  said  he.  "But  you're  like  lots  of  women 
I  know.  You'd  rather  die  than  take  exercise.  Still, 
I've  got  you  to  stop  that  eating  that  was  keeping  you 
on  the  verge  all  the  time." 

"You're  trying  to  starve  me  to  death,"  grumbled 
Hastings. 

"Don't  you  feel  better,  now  that  you've  got  used  to 
it  and  don't  feel  hungry?" 

"But  I'm  not  getting  any  nourishment." 

"How  would  eating  help  you?  You  can't  digest  any 
more  than  what  I'm  allowing  you.  Do  you  think  you 
were  better  off  when  you  were  full  of  rotting  food?  I 
guess  not." 

"Well — I'm  doing  as  you  say,"  said  the  old  man 
resignedly. 

"And  if  you  keep  it  up  for  a  year,  I'll  put  you  on  a 
horse.  If  you  don't  keep  it  up,  you'll  find  yourself  in 
a  hearse." 

Jane  stood  silently  by,  listening  with  a  feeling  of  de 
pression  which  she  could  not  have  accounted  for,  if 
she  would — and  would  not  if  she  could.  Not  that  she 
wished  her  father  to  die;  simply  that  Charlton's  con 
fidence  in  his  long  life  forced  her  to  face  the  only 
alternative — bringing  him  round  to  accept  Victor 
Dorn. 

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At  her  father's  next  remark  she  began  to  listen  with 
a  high  beating  heart.  He  said  to  Charlton : 

"How  about  that  there  friend  of  yours — that  young 
Dorn?  You  ain't  talked  about  him  to-day  as  much 
as  usual." 

"The  last  time  we  talked  about  him  we  quarreled," 
said  Charlton.  "It's  irritating  to  see  a  man  of  your 
intelligence  a  slave  to  silly  prejudices." 

"I  like  Victor  Dorn,"  replied  Hastings  in  a  most  con 
ciliatory  tone.  "I  think  he's  a  fine  young  man.  Didn't 
I  have  him  up  here  at  my  house  not  long  ago?  Jane'll 
tell  you  that  I  like  him.  She  likes  him,  too.  But  the 
trouble  with  him — and  with  you,  too — is  that  you're 
dreaming  all  the  time.  You  don't  recognize  facts.  And, 
so,  you  make  a  lot  of  trouble  for  us  conservative  men." 

"Please  don't  use  that  word  conservative,"  said 
Charlton.  "It  gags  me  to  hear  it.  You're  not  a  con 
servative.  If  you  had  been  you'd  still  be  a  farm  hand. 
You've  been  a  radical  all  your  life — changing  things 
round  and  round,  always  according  to  your  idea  of  what 
was  to  your  advantage.  The  only  difference  between 
radicals  like  you  robber  financiers  and  radicals  like 
Victor  and  me  is  that  our  ideas  of  what's  to  our  ad 
vantage  differ.  To  you  life  means  money;  to  us  it 
means  health  and  comfort  and  happiness.  You  want 
the  world  changed — laws  upset,  liberty  destroyed, 
wages  lowered,  and  so  on — so  that  you  can  get  all 
the  money.  We  want  the  world  changed  so  that  we 
can  be  healthy  and  comfortable  and  happy — securely 

291 


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so — which  we  can't  be  unless  everybody  is,  or  is  in  the 
way  to  being." 

Jane  was  surprised  to  see  that  her  father,  instead  of 
c?mg  offended,  was  amused  and  pleased.  He  liked 
his  new  doctor  so  well  that  he  liked  everything  he  said 
and  did.  Jane  looked  at  Charlton  in  her  friendliest 
way.  Here  might  be  an  ally,  and  a  valuable  ally. 

"Human  nature  doesn't  change,"  said  Hastings  in 
the  tone  of  a  man  who  is  stating  that  which  cannot  be 
disputed. 

"The  mischief  it  doesn't,"  said  Charlton  in  prompt 
and  vigorous  dissent.  "When  conditions  change, 
human  nature  has  to  change,  has  to  adapt  itself.  What 
you  mean  is  that  human  nature  doesn't  change  itself. 
But  conditions  change  it.  They've  been  changing  it 
very  rapidly  these  last  few  years.  Science — steam, 
electricity,  a  thousand  inventions  and  discoveries, 
crowding  one  upon  another — science  has  brought  about 
entirely  new  and  unprecedented  conditions  so  rapidly 
that  the  changes  in  human  nature  now  making  and  that 
must  be  made  in  the  next  few  years  are  resulting  in  a 
series  of  convulsions.  You  old-fashioned  fellows — and 
the  political  parties  and  the  politicians — are  in  danger 
of  being  stranded.  Leaders  like  \§ctor  Dorn — move 
ments  like  our  Workingmen's  League — they  seem  new 
and  radical  to-day.  By  to-morrow  they'll  be  the  com 
monplace  thing,  found  everywhere — and  administering 
the  public  affairs." 

Jane  was  not  surprised  to  see  an  expression  of  at 
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least  partial  admission  upon  her  father's  face.  Charl- 
ton's  words  were  of  the  kind  that  set  the  imagination 
to  work,  that  remind  those  who  hear  of  a  thousand 
and  one  familiar  related  facts  bearing  upon  the  same 
points.  "Well,"  said  Hastings,  "I  don't  expect  to  see 
any  radical  changes  in  my  time." 

"Then  you'll  not  live  as  long  as  I  think,"  said  Charl- 
ton.  "We  Americans  advance  very  slowly  because  this 
is  a  big  country  and  undeveloped,  and  because  we  shift 
about  so  much  that  no  one  stays  in  one  place  long 
enough  to  build  up  a  citizenship  and  get  an  education 
in  politics — which  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  an  edu 
cation  in  the  art  of  living.  But  slow  though  we  are, 
we  do  advance.  You'll  soon  see  the  last  of  Boss  Kelly 
and  Boss  House — and  of  such  gentle,  amiable  frauds 
as  our  friend  Davy  Hull." 

Jane  laughed  merrily.  "Why  do  you  call  him  a 
fraud?"  she  asked. 

"Because  he  is  a  fraud,"  said  Charlton.  "He  is 
trying  to  confuse  the  issue.  He  says  the  whole  trouble 
is  petty  dishonesty  in  public  life.  Bosh !  The  trouble 
is  that  the  upper  and  middle  classes  are  milking  the 
lower  class — both  with  and  without  the  aid  of  the 
various  governments,  local,  state  and  national.  That's 
the  issue.  And  the  reason  it  is  being  forced  is  because 
the  lower  class,  the  working  class,  is  slowly  awakening 
to  the  truth.  When  it  completely  awakens "  Charl 
ton  made  a  large  gesture  and  laughed. 

"What  then?"  said  Hastings. 
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"The  end  of  the  upper  and  the  middle  classes.  Every 
body  will  have  to  work  for  a  living." 

"Who's  going  to  be  elected  this  fall?"  asked  Jane. 
"Your  man?" 

"Yes,"  said  Doctor  Charlton.  "Victor  Dorn  thinks 
not.  But  he  always  takes  the  gloomy  view.  And  he 
doesn't  meet  and  talk  with  the  fellows  on  the  other  side, 
as  I  do." 

Hastings  was  looking  out  from  under  the  vizor  of 
his  cap  with  a  peculiar  grin.  It  changed  to  a  look  of 
startled  inquiry  as  Charlton  went  on  to  say: 

"Yes,  we'll  win.  But  the  Davy  Hull  gang  will  get 
the  offices." 

"Why  do  you  think  that?"  asked  old  Hastings 
sharply. 

Charlton  eyed  his  patient  with  a  mocking  smile. 
"You  didn't  think  any  one  knew  but  you  and  Kelly — 
did  you?"  laughed  he. 

"Knew  what?"  demanded  Hastings,  with  a  blank* 
stare. 

"No  matter,"  said  Charlton.  "I  know  what  you  in 
tend  to  do.  Well,  you'll  get  away  with  the  goods. 
But  you'll  wish  you  hadn't.  You  old-fashioned  fel 
lows,  as  I've  been  telling  you,  don't  realize  that  times 
have  changed." 

"Do  you  mean,  Doctor,  that  the  election  is  to  be 
stolen  away  from  you?"  inquired  Jane. 

"Was  that  what  I  meant,  Mr.  Hastings?"  said 
Charlton. 

294 


THE   CONFLICT 


"The  side  that  loses  always  shouts  thief  at  the  side 
that  wins,"  said  the  old  man  indifferently.  "I  don't 
take  any  interest  in  politics." 

"Why  should  you?"  said  the  Doctor  audaciously. 
"You  own  both  sides.  So,  it's  heads  you  win,  tails  I 
lose." 

Hastings  laughed  heartily.  "Them  political  fellows 
are  a  lot  of  blackmailers,"  said  he.  , 

"That's  ungrateful,"  said  Charlton.  "Still,  I  don't 
blame  you  for  liking  the  Davy  Hull  crowd  better. 
From  them  you  can  get  what  you  want  just  the  same, 
only  you  don't  have  to  pay  for  it."  He  rose  and 
stretched  his  big  frame,  with  a  disregard  of  conven 
tional  good  manners  so  unconscious  that  it  was  inof 
fensive.  But  Charlton  had  a  code  of  manners  of  his 
own,  and  somehow  it  seemed  to  suit  him  where  the  con 
ventional  code  would  have  made  him  seem  cheap.  "I 
didn't  mean  to  look  after  your  political  welfare,  too," 
said  he.  "But  I'll  make  no  charge  for  that." 

"Oh,  I  like  to  hear  you  young  fellows  talk,"  said 
Martin.  "You'll  sing  a  different  song  when  you're  as 
old  as  I  am  and  have  found  out  what  a  lot  of  damn 
fools  the  human  race  is." 

"As  I  told  you  before,"  said  Charlton,  "it's  condi 
tions  that  make  the  human  animal  whatever  it  is.  It's 
in  the  harness  of  conditions — the  treadmill  of  condi 
tions — the  straight  jacket  of  conditions.  Change  the 
conditions  and  you  change  the  animal." 

When  he  was  swinging  his  big  powerful  form  across 
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the  lawns  toward  the  fringe  of  woods,  Jane  and  her 
father  looking  after  him,  Jane  said: 

"He's  wonderfully  clever,  isn't  he?" 

"A  dreamer — a  crank,"  replied  the  old  man. 

"But  what  he  says  sounds  reasonable,"  suggested  the 
daughter. 

"It  sounds  sensible,"  admitted  the  old  man  peevishly. 
"But  it  ain't  what  7  was  brought  up  to  call  sensible. 
Don't  you  get  none  of  those  fool  ideas  into  your  head. 
They're,  all  very  well  for  men  that  haven't  got  any 
property  or  any  responsibilities — for  flighty  fellows 
like  Charlton  and  that  there  Victor  Dorn.  But  as 
soon  as  anybody  gets  property  and  has  interests  to 
look  after,  he  drops  that  kind  of  talk." 

"Do  you  mean  that  property  makes  a  man  too  blind 
or  too  cowardly  to  speak  the  truth?"  asked  Jane  with 
an  air  of  great  innocence. 

The  old  man  either  did  not  hear  or  had  no  answer 
ready.  He  said :  "You  heard  him  say  that  Davy  Hull 
was  going  to  win?" 

"Why,  he  said  Victor  Dorn  was  going  to  win,"  said 
Jane,  still  simple  and  guileless. 

Hastings  frowned  impatiently.  "That  was  just  loose 
talk.  He  admitted  Davy  was  to  be  the  next  mayor. 
If  he  is — and  I  expect  Charlton  was  about  right — if 
Davy  is  elected,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  see  him 
nominated  for  governor  next  year.  He's  a  sensible, 
knowing  fellow.  He'll  make  a  good  mayor,  and  he'll 
be  elected  governor  on  his  record." 

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"And  on  what  you  and  the  other  men  who  run  things 
will  do  for  him,"  suggested  Jane  slyly. 

Her  father  grinned  ^expressively.  "I  like  to  see  a 
sensible,  ambitious  young  fellow  from  my  town  get 
on,"  said  he.  "And  I'd  like  to  see  my  girl  married 
to  a  fellow  of  that  sort,  and  settled." 

"I  think  more  could  be  done  with  a  man  like  Victor 
Dorn,"  said  Jane.  "It  seems  to  me  the  Davy  Hull 
sort  of  politics  is — is  about  played  out.  Don't  you 
think  so?" 

Jane  felt  that  her  remark  was  a  piece  of  wild  au 
dacity.  But  she  was  desperate.  To  her  amazement 
her  father  did  not  flare  up  but  kept  silent,  wearing  the 
look  she  knew  meant  profound  reflection.  After  a 
moment  he  said: 

"Davy's  a  knowing  boy.  He  showed  that  the  other 
day  when  he  jumped  in  and  made  himself  a  popular 
hero.  He'd  never  'a'  been  able  to  come  anywheres  near 
election  but  for  that.  Dorn'd  'a'  won  by  a  vote  so  big 
that  Dick  Kelly  wouldn't  V  dared  even  try  to  count 
him  out.  .  .  .  Dorn's  a  better  man  than  Davy. 
But  Dorn's  got  a  foolish  streak  in  him.  He  believes 
the  foolishness  he  talks,  instead  of  simply  talking  it  to 
gain  his  end.  I've  been  looking  him  over  and  thinking 
him  over.  He  won't  do,  Jinny." 

Was  her  father  discussing  the  matter  abstractly,  im 
personally,  as  he  seemed?  Or,  had  he  with  that  un 
canny  shrewdness  of  his  somehow  penetrated  to  her 
secret — or  to  a  suspicion  of  it?  Jane  was  so  agitated 

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that  she  sat  silent  and  rigid,  trying  to  look  uncon 
cerned. 

"I  had  a  strong  notion  to  try  to  do  something  for 
him,"  continued  the  old  man.  "But  it'd  be  no  use. 
He'd  not  rise  to  a  chance  that  was  offered  him.  He's 
set  on  going  his  own  way." 

Jane  trembled — dared.  "I  believe  /  could  do  some 
thing  with  him,"  said  she — and  she  was  pleased  with 
the  coolness  of  her  voice,  the  complete  abseHce  of  agi 
tation  or  of  false  note. 

"Try  if  you  like,"  said  her  father.  "But  I'm  sure 
you'll  find  I'm  right.  Be  careful  not  to  commit  your 
self  in  any  way.  But  I  needn't  warn  you.  You  know 
how  to  take  care  of  yourself.  Still,  maybe  you  don't 
realize  how  set  up  he'd  be  over  being  noticed  by  a  girl 
in  your  position.  And  if  you  gave  him  the  notion  that 
there  was  a  chance  for  him  to  marry  you,  he'd  be  after 
you  hammer  and  tongs.  The  idea  of  getting  hold  of 
so  much  money'd  set  him  crazy." 

"I  doubt  if  he  cares  very  much — or  at  all — about 
money,"  said  Jane,  judicially. 

Hastings  grinned  satirically.  "There  ain't  nobody 
that  don't  care  about  money,"  said  he,  "any  more 
than  there's  anybody  that  don't  care  about  air  to 
breathe.  Put  a  pin  right  there,  Jinny." 

"I  hate  to  think  that,"  she  said,  reluctantly,  "but 
I'm  afraid — it's — so." 

As   she  was  taking  her  ride  one  morning  she   met 

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David  Hull  also  on  horseback  and  out  for  his  health. 
He  turned  and  they  rode  together,  for  several  miles, 
neither  breaking  the  silence  except  with  an  occasional 
remark  about  weather  or  scenery.  Finally  Davy  said: 

"You  seem  to  be  down  about  something,  too?" 

"Not  exactly  down,"  replied  Jane.  "Simply — I've 
been  doing  a  lot  of  thinking — and  planning — or  at 
tempt  at  planning — lately." 

"I,  too,"  said  Davy. 

"Naturally.      How's  politics?" 

"Of  course  I  don't  hear  anything  but  that  I'm  going 
to  be  elected.  If  you  want  to  become  convinced  that 
the  whole  world  is  on  the  graft,  take  part  in  a  reform 
campaign.  We've  attracted  every  broken-down  politi 
cal  crook  in  this  region.  It's  hard  to  say  which  crowd 
is  the  more  worthless,  the  college  amateurs  at  politics 
or  these  rotten  old  in-goods  who  can't  get  employment 
with  either  Kelly  or  House  and,  so,  have  joined  us. 
By  Jove,  I'd  rather  be  in  with  the  out  and  out  grafters 
— the  regulars  that  make  no  bones  of  being  in  politics 
for  the  spoils.  There's  slimy  hypocrisy  over  our  crowd 
that  revolts  me.  Not  a  particle  of  sincerity  or  con 
viction.  'Nothing  but  high  moral  guff." 

"Oh,  but  you're  sincere,  Davy,"  said  Jane  with 
twinkling  eyes. 

"Am  I?"  said  Davy  angrily.  "I'm  not  so  damn 
sure  of  it."  Hastily,  "I  don't  mean  that.  Of  course, 
I'm  sincere — as  sincere  as  a  man  can  be  and  get  any 
where  in  this  world.  You've  got  to  humbug  the  peo- 

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THE    CONFLICT 


pie,  because  they  haven't  sense  enough  to  want  the 
truth." 

"I  guess,  Davy,"  said  Jane  shrewdly,  "if  you  told 
them  the  whole  truth  about  yourself  and  your  party 
they'd  have  sense  enough — to  vote  for  Victor  Dorn." 

"He's  a  demagogue,"  said  Davy  with  an  angry  jerk 
at  his  rein.  "He  knows  the  people  aren't  fit  to  rule." 

"Who  is?"  said  Jane.  "I've  yet  to  see  any  human 
creature  who  eould  run  anything  without  making  more 
or  less  of  a  mess  of  it.  And — well,  personally,  I'd 
prefer  incompetent  honest  servants  to  competent  ones 
who  were  liars  or  thieves." 

"Sometimes  I  think,"  said  Davy,  "that  the  only  thing 
to  do  is  to  burn  the  world  up  and  start  another  one." 

"You  don't  talk  like  a  man  who  expected  to  be 
elected,"  said  Jane. 

"Oh — I'm  worrying  about  myself — not  about  the 
election,"  said  Hull,  lapsing  into  sullen  silence.  And 
certainly  he  had  no  reason  to  worry  about  the  election. 
He  had  the  Citizen's  Alliance  and  the  Democratic  nomi 
nations.  And,  as  a  further  aid  to  him,  Dick  Kelly  had 
given  the  Republican  nomination  to  Alfred  Sawyer, 
about  the  most  unpopular  manufacturer  in  that  region. 
Sawyer,  a  shrewd  money  maker,  was  an  ass  in  other 
ways,  was  strongly  seized  of  the  itch  for  public  office. 
Kelly,  seeking  the  man  who  would  be  the  weakest,  com 
bined  business  with  good  politics;  he  forced  Sawyer  to 
pay  fifty  thousand  dollars  into  the  "campaign  fund" 
in  a  lump  sum,  and  was  counting  confidently  upon 

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"milking"  him  for  another  fifty  thousand  in  install 
ments  during  the  campaign.  Thus,  in  the  natural 
order  of  things,  Davy  could  safely  assume  that  he  would 
be  the  next  mayor  of  Remsen  City  by  a  gratifyingly 
large  majority.  The  last  vote  of  the  Workingmen's 
League  had  been  made  fifteen  hundred.  Though  it 
should  quadruple  its  strength  at  the  coming  election 
— which  was  most  improbable — it  would  still  be  a  badly 
beaten  second.  Politically,  Davy  was  at  ease. 

Jane  waited  ten  minutes,  then  asked  abruptly : 

"What's  become  of  Selma  Gordon?" 

"Did  you  see  this  week's  New  Day?" 

"Is  it  out?  I've  seen  no  one,  and  haven't  been  down 
town." 

"There  was  a  lot  of  stuff  in  it  against  me.  Most 
of  it  demagoguing,  of  course,  but  more  or  less  hys 
terical  campaigning.  The  only  nasty  article  about 
me — a  downright  personal  attack  on  my  sincerity — 
was  signed  «S.  G.'  " 

"Oh — to  be  sure,"  said  Jane,  with  smiling  insin 
cerity.  "I  had  almost  forgotten  what  you  told  me. 
Well,  it's  easy  enough  to  bribe  her  to  silence.  Go 
offer  yourself  to  her." 

A  long  silence,  then  Davy  said :  "I  don't  believe  she'd 
accept  me." 

"Try  it,"  said  Jane. 

Again  a  long  pause.     David  said  sullenly:  "I  did." 

Selma  Gordon  had  refused  David  Hull!  Half  a 
dozen  explanations  of  this  astounding  occurrence  rap- 
20  301 


THE   CONFLICT 


idly  suggested  themselves.     Jane  rejected  each  in  turn 
at  a  glance.     "You're  sure  she  understood  you?" 

"I  made  myself  as  clear  as  I  did  when  I  proposed  to 
you,"  replied  Davy  with  a  lack  of  tact  which  a  woman 
of  Jane's  kind  would  never  forget  or  forgive. 

Jane  winced,  ignored.  Said  she:  "You  must  have 
insisted  on  some  conditions  she  hesitated  to  accept." 

"On  her  own  terms,"  said  Davy. 

Jane  gave  up  trying  to  get  the  real  reason  from 
him,  sought  it  in  Selma's  own  words  and  actions.  She 
inquired:  "What  did  she  say?  What  reason  did  she 
give?" 

"That  she  owed  it  to  the  cause  of  her  class  not  to 
marry  a  man  of  my  class,"  answered  Hull,  believing 
that  he  was  giving  the  exact  and  the  only  reason  she 
assigned  or  had. 

Jane  gave  a  faint  smile  of  disdain.  "Women  don't 
act  from  a  sense  of  duty,"  she  said. 

"She's  not  the  ordinary  woman,"  said  Hull.  "You 
must  remember  she  wasn't  brought  up  as  you  and  I 
were — hasn't  our  ideas  of  life.  The  things  that  appeal 
to  us  most  strongly  don't  touch  her.  She  knows  noth 
ing  about  them."  He  added,  "And  that's  her  great 
charm  for  me." 

Jane  nodded  sympathetically.  Her  own  case  exactly. 
After  a  brief  hesitation  she  suggested: 

"Perhaps  Selma's  in  love  with — some  one  else."  The 
pause  before  the  vague  "some  one  else"  was  almost  un- 
noticeable. 

302 


THE   CONFLICT 


"With  Victor  Dora,  you  mean?"  said  Davy.  "I 
asked  her  about  that.  No,  she's  not  in  love  with  him." 

"As  if  she'd  tell  you!" 

Davy  looked  at  her  a  little  scornfully.  "Don't  in 
sinuate,"  he  said.  "You  know  she  would.  There's 
nothing  of  the  ordinary  tricky,  evasive,  faking  woman 
about  her.  And  although  she's  got  plenty  of  excuse 
for  being  conceited,  she  isn't  a  bit  so.  She  isn't  always 
thinking  about  herself,  like  the  girls  of  our  class." 

"I  don't  in  the  least  wonder  at  your  being  in  love 
with  her,  Davy,"  said  Jane  sweetly.  "Didn't  I  tell 
you  I  admired  your  taste — and  your  courage?" 

"You're  sneering  at  me,"  said  Davy.  "All  the  same, 
it  did  take  courage — for  I'm  a  snob  at  bottom — like 
you — like  all  of  us  who've  been  brought  up  so  foolishly 
— so  rottenly.  But  I'm  proud  that  I  had  the  courage. 
I've  had  a  better  opinion  of  myself  ever  since.  And  if 
you  have  any  unspoiled  womanhood  in  you,  you  agree 
with  me." 

"I  do  agree  with  you,"  said  Jane  softly.  She 
reached  out  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  for  an  in 
stant.  "That's  honest,  Davy." 

He  gave  her  a  grateful  look.  "I  know  it,"  said  he. 
"The  reason  I  confide  things  to  you  is  because  I  know 
you're  a  real  woman  at  bottom,  Jane — the  only  real 
person  I've  ever  happened  across  in  our  class." 

"It  took  more  courage  for  you  to  do  that  sort  of 
thing  than  it  would  for  a  woman,"  said  Jane.  "It's 
more  natural,  easier  for  a  woman  to  stake  everything 

303 


THE   CONFLICT 


in  love.  If  she  hasn't  the  man  she  wants  she  hasn't 
anything,  while  a  man's  wife  can  be  a  mere  detail  in  his 
life.  He  can  forget  he's  married,  most  of  the  time." 

"That  isn't  the  way  I  intend  to  be  married,"  said 
Davy.  "I  want  a  wife  who'll  be  half,  full  half,  of  the 
whole.  And  I'll  get  her." 

"You  mean  you  haven't  given  up?" 

"Why  should  I?  She  doesn't  love  another  man.  So, 
there's  hope.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

Jane  was  silent.  She  hastily  debated  whether  it 
would  be  wiser  to  say  yes  or  to  say  no. 

"Don't  you  think  so?"  repeated  he. 

"How  can  I  tell?"  replied  Jane,  diplomatically.  "I'd 
have  to  see  her  with  you — see  how  she  feels  toward 
you." 

"I  think  she  likes  me,"  said  Davy,  "likes  me  a  good 
deal." 

Jane  kept  her  smile  from  the  surface.  What  a  man 
always  thought,  no  matter  how  plainly  a  woman  showed 
that  she  detested  him.  "No  doubt  she  does,"  said  Jane. 
She  had  decided  upon  a  course  of  action.  "If  I  were 
you,  Davy,  I'd  keep  away  from  her  for  the  present — 
give  her  time  to  think  it  over,  to  see  all  the  advantages. 
If  a  man  forces  himself  on  a  queer,  wild  sort  of  girl 
such  as  Selma  is,  he's  likely  to  drive  her  further  away." 

Davy  reflected.  "Guess  you're  right,"  said  he  finally. 
"My  instinct  is  always  to  act — to  keep  on  acting  until 
I  get  results.  But  it's  dangerous  to  do  that  with 
Selma.  At  least,  I  think  so.  I  don't  know.  I  don't 

304 


THE   CONFLICT 


understand  her.  I've  got  nothing  to  offer  her — noth 
ing  that  she  wants — as  she  frankly  told  me.  Even  if 
she  loved  me,  I  doubt  if  she'd  marry  me — on  account 
of  her  sense  of  duty.  What  you  said  awhile  ago — 
about  women  never  doing  things  from  a  sense  of  duty — 
that  shows  how  hard  it  is  for  a  woman  to  understand 
what's  perfectly  simple  to  a  man.  Selma  isn't  the 
sheltered  woman  sort — the  sort  whose  moral  obligations 
are  all  looked  after  by  the  men  of  her  family.  The 
old-fashioned  woman  always  belonged  to  some  man — 
or  else  was  an  outcast.  This  new  style  of  woman  looks 
at  life  as  a  man  does." 

Jane  listened  with  a  somewhat  cynical  expression. 
No  doubt,  in  theory,  there  was  a  new  style  of  woman. 
But  practically,  the  new  style  of  woman  merely  talked 
differently;  at  least,  she  was  still  the  old-fashioned 
woman,  longing  for  dependence  upon  some  man  and 
indifferent  to  the  obligations  men  made  such  a  fuss 
about — probably  not  so  sincerely  as  they  fancied. 
But  her  expression  changed  when  Davy  went  on  to 
say: 

"She'd  look  at  a  thing  of  that  sort  much  as  I — 
or  Victor  Dorn  would." 

Jane's  heart  suddenly  sank.  Because  the  uncon 
scious  blow  had  hurt  she  struck  out,  struck  back  with 
the  first  weapon  she  could  lay  hold  of.  "But  you 
said  a  minute  ago  that  Victor  was  a  hypocritical  dema 
gogue." 

Davy  flushed  with  confusion.  He  was  in  a  franker 
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THE    CONFLICT 


mood  now,  however.      "I'd  like  to  think  that,"  he  re 
plied.      "But  I  don't  honestly  believe  it." 

"You  think  that  if  Victor  Dorn  loved  a  woman  of 
our  class  he'd  put  her  out  of  his  life?" 

"That's  hardly  worth  discussing,"  said  Davy.  "No 
woman  of  our  class — no  woman  he'd  be  likely  to  look 
at — would  encourage  him  to  the  point  where  he'd  pre 
sume  upon  it." 

"How  narrow  you  are!"  cried  Jane,  derisive  but 
even  more  angry. 

"It's  different — entirely  different — with  a  man,  even 
in  our  class.  But  a  woman  of  our  class — she's  a  lady 
or  she's  nothing  at  all.  And  a  lady  couldn't  be  so 
lacking  in  refinement  as  to  descend  to  a  man  socially 
beneath  her." 

"I  can  see  how  any  woman  might  fall  in  love  with 
Victor  Dorn." 

"You're  just  saying  that  to  be  argumentative,"  said 
Davy  with  conviction.  "Take  yourself,  for  example." 

"I  confess  I  don't  see  any  such  contrast  between  Vic 
tor  and  you — except  where  the  comparison's  altogether 
in  his  favor,"  said  Jane  pleasantly.  "You  don't  know 
as  much  as  he  does.  You  haven't  the  independence  of 
character — or  the  courage — or  the  sincerity.  You 
couldn't  be  a  real  leader,  as  he  is.  You  have  to  de 
pend  on  influence,  and  on  trickery." 

A  covert  glance  at  the  tall,  solemn-looking  young 
man  riding  silently  beside  her  convinced  her  that  he  was 
as  uncomfortable  as  she  had  hoped  to  make  him. 

306 


THE   CONFLICT 


"As  for  manners — and  the  things  that  go  to  make  a 
gentleman,"  she  went  on,  "I'm  not  sure  but  that  there, 
too,  the  comparison  is  against  you.  You  always  sug 
gest  to  me  that  if  you  hadn't  the  pattern  set  for  men 
of  our  class  and  didn't  follow  it,  you'd  be  absolutely 
lost,  Davy,  dear.  While  Victor — he's  a  fine,  natural 
person,  with  the  manners  that  grow  as  naturally  out 
of  his  personality  as  oak  leaves  grow  out  of  an 
oak." 

Jane  was  astonished  and  delighted  by  this  eloquence 
of  hers  about  the  man  she  loved — an  eloquence  far 
above  her  usual  rather  commonplace  mode  of  speech 
and  thought.  Love  was  indeed  an  inspirer!  What  a 
person  she  would  become  when  she  had  Victor  always 
stimulating  her.  She  went  on: 

"A  woman  would  never  grow  tired  of  Victor.  He 
doesn't  talk  stale  stuff  such  as  all  of  us  get  from  the 
stale  little  professors  and  stale,  dreary  text-books  at 
our  colleges." 

"Why  don't  you  fall  in  love  with  him?"  said  Davy 
sourly. 

"I  do  believe  you're  envious  of  Victor  Dorn,"  re 
torted  Jane. 

"What  a  disagreeable  mood  you're  in  to-day,"  said 
Davy. 

"So  a  man  always  thinks  when  a  woman  speaks  well 
of  another  man  in  his  presence." 

"I  didn't  suspect  you  of  being  envious  of  Selma. 
Why  should  you  suspect  me  of  feeling  ungenerously 

307 


THE    CONFLICT 


about  Victor?  Fall  in  love  with  him  if  you  like. 
Heaven  knows,  I'd  do  nothing  to  stop  it." 

"Perhaps  I  shall,"  said  Jane,  with  unruffled  amia 
bility.  "You're  setting  a  dangerous  example  of  break 
ing  down  class  lines." 

"Now,  Jane,  you  know  perfectly  well  that  while,  if 
I  married  Selma  she'd  belong  to  my  class,  a  woman 
of  our  class  marrying  Victor  Dorn  would  sink  to  his 
class.  Why  quarrel  about  anything  so  obviously 
true?" 

"Victor  Dorn  belongs  to  a  class  by  himself,"  replied 
Jane.  "You  forget  that  men  of  genius  are  not  re 
garded  like  you  poor  ordinary  mortals." 

Davy  was  relieved  that  they  had  reached  the  turning 
at  which  they  had  to  separate.  "I  believe  you  are  in 
love  with  him,"  said  he  as  a  parting  shot. 

Jane,  riding  into  her  lane,  laughed  gayly,  mockingly. 
She  arrived  at  home  in  fine  humor.  It  pleased  her 
that  Davy,  for  all  his  love  for  Selma,  could  yet  be 
jealous  of  Victor  Dorn  on  her  account.  And  more 
than  ever,  after  this  talk  with  him — the  part  of  it  that 
preceded  the  quarrel — she  felt  that  she  was  doing  a 
fine,  brave,  haughtily  aristocratic  thing  in  loving  Vic 
tor  Dorn.  Only  a  woman  with  a  royal  soul  would  ven 
ture  to  be  thus  audacious. 

Should  she  encourage  or  discourage  the  affair  be 
tween  Davy  and  Selma  ?  There  was  much  to  be  said  for 
this  way  of  removing  Selma  from  her  path ;  also,  if  a 
man  of  Davy  Hull's  position  married  beneath  him,  less 

308 


THE   CONFLICT 


would  be  thought  of  her  doing  the  same  thing.  On 
the  other  hand,  she  felt  that  she  had  a  certain  property 
right  in  David  Hull,^md  that  Selma  was  taking  what 
belonged  to  her.  This,  she  admitted  to  herself,  was 
mean  and  small,  was  unworthy  of  the  woman  who  was 
trying  to  be  worthy  of  Victor  Dorn,  of  such  love  as 
she  professed  for  him.  Yes,  mean  and  small.  She 
must  try  to  conquer  it. 

But — when  she  met  Selma  in  the  woods  a  few  morn 
ings  later,  her  dominant  emotions  were  anything  but 
high-minded  and  generous.  Selma  was  looking  her 
most  fascinating — wild  and  strange  and  unique.  They 
caught  sight  of  each  other  at  the  same  instant.  Jane 
came  composedly  on — Selma  made  a  darting  movement 
toward  a  by-path  opening  near  her,  hesitated,  stood 
like  some  shy,  lovely  bird  of  the  deep  wilderness  ready 
to  fly  away  into  hiding. 

"Hello,  Selma !"  said  Jane  carelessly. 

Selma  looked  at  her  with  wide,  serious  eyes. 

"Where  have  you  been  keeping  yourself  of  late? 
Busy  with  the  writing,  I  suppose?" 

"I  owe  you  an  apology,"  said  Selma,  in  a  queer,  sup 
pressed  voice.  "I  have  been  hating  you,  and  trying  to 
think  of  some  way  to  keep  you  and  Victor  Dorn  apart. 
I  thought  it  was  from  my  duty  to  the  cause.  I've  found 
out  that  it  was  a  low,  mean  personal  reason." 

Jane  had  stopped  short,  was  regarding  her  with  eyes 
that  glowed  in  a  pallid  face.  "Because  you  are  in  love 
with  him  ?"  she  said. 

309 


THE   CONFLICT 


Selma  gave  a  quick,  shamed  nod.  "Yes,"  she  said — 
the  sound  was  scarcely  audible. 

Selma's  frank  and  generous — and  confiding — self- 
sacrifice  aroused  no  response  in  Jane  Hastings.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  knowing  what  it  meant 
to  hate. 

"And  I've  got  to  warn  you,"  Selma  went  on,  "that  I 
am  going  to  do  whatever  I  can  to  keep  you  from  hin 
dering  him.  Not  because  I  love  him,  but  because  I 
owe  it  to  the  cause.  He  belongs  to  it,  and  I  must  help 
him  be  single-hearted  for  it.  You  could  only  be  a  bad 
influence  in  his  life.  I  think  you  would  like  to  be  a 
sincere  woman ;  but  you  can't.  Your  class  is  too  strong 
for  you.  So — it  would  be  wrong  for  Victor  Dorn  to 
love  and  to  marry  you.  I  think  he  realizes  it  and  is 
struggling  to  be  true  to  himself.  I  intend  to  help 
him,  if  I  can." 

Jane  smiled  cruelly.  "What  hypocrisy!"  she  said, 
and  turned  and  walked  away. 


VIII 

In  America  we  have  been  bringing  up  our  women  like 
men,  and  treating  them  like  children.  They  have  active 
minds  with  nothing  to  act  upon.  Thus  they  are  driven 
to  think  chiefly  about  themselves.  With  Jane  Hastings, 
self-centering  took  the  form  of  self-analysis  most  of 
the  time.  She  was  intensely  interested  in  what  she  re 
garded  as  the  new  development  of  her  character.  This 
definite  and  apparently  final  decision  for  the  narrow 
and  the  ungenerous.  In  fact,  it  was  no  new  develop 
ment,  but  simply  a  revelation  to  herself  of  her  own  real 
character.  She  was  seeing  at  last  the  genuine  Jane 
Hastings,  inevitable  product  of  a  certain  heredity  in  a 
certain  environment.  The  high  thinking  and  talking, 
the  idealistic  aspiration  were  pose  and  pretense.  Jane 
Hastings  was  a  selfish,  self-absorbed  person,  ready  to 
do  almost  any  base  thing  to  gain  her  ends,  ready  to 
hate  to  the  uttermost  any  one  who  stood  between  her 
and  her  object. 

"I'm  certainly  not  a  lovely  person — not  a  lovable 
person,"  thought  she,  with  that  gentle  tolerance  where 
with  we  regard  our  ownselves,  whether  in  the  dress  of 
pretense  or  in  the  undress  of  deformed  humanness. 
"Still — I  am  what  I  am,  and  I've  got  to  make  the  best 
of  it." 

As  she  thought  of  Selma's  declaration  of  war  she  be- 
311 


THE   CONFLICT 


came  less  and  less  disturbed  about  it.  Selma  neither 
would  nor  could  do  anything  sly.  Whatever  she  at 
tempted  in  the  open  would  only  turn  Victor  Dorn  more 
strongly  toward  herself.  However,  she  must  continue 
to  try  to  see  him,  must  go  to  see  him  in  a  few  days  if 
she  did  not  happen  upon  him  in  her  rides  or  walks. 
How  poorly  he  would  think  of  her  if  he  knew  the  truth 
about  her !  But  then,  how  poor  most  women — and  men, 
too — would  look  in  a  strong  and  just  light.  Few  in 
deed  could  stand  idealizing;  except  Victor,  no  one  she 
knew.  And  he  was  human  enough  not  to  make  her  un 
comfortable  in  his  presence. 

But  it  so  happened  that  before  she  could  see  Victor 
Dorn  her  father  disobeyed  Dr.  Charlton  and  gave  way 
to  the  appetite  that  was  the  chief  cause  of  his  physical 
woes.  He  felt  so  well  that  he  ate  the  family  dinner,  in 
cluding  a  peach  cobbler  with  whipped  cream,  which 
even  the  robust  Jane  adventured  warily.  Martha  was 
dining  with  them.  She  abetted  her  father.  "It's  light," 
said  she.  "It  couldn't  harm  anybody." 

"You  mustn't  touch  it,  popsy,"  said  Jane. 

She  unthinkingly  spoke  a  little  too  commandingly. 
Her  father,  in  a  perverse  and  reckless  mood,  took 
Martha's  advice.  An  hour  later  Dr.  Charlton  was  sum 
moned,  and  had  he  not  arrived  promptly 

"Another  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,"  said  he  to  the 
old  man  when  he  had  him  out  of  immediate  danger,  "and 
I'd  have  had  nothing  to  do  but  sign  a  certificate  of 
natural  death." 

312 


THE   CONFLICT 


"Murder  would  have  been  nearer  the  truth,"  said 
Martin  feebly.  "That  there  fool  Martha !" 

"Come  out  from  behind  that  petticoat !"  cried  Charl- 
ton.  "Didn't  I  spend  the  best  part  of  three  days  in 
giving  you  the  correct  ideas  as  to  health  and  disease 
— in  showing  you  that  all  disease  comes  from  indiges 
tion — all  disease,  from  falling  hair  and  sore  eyes  to 
weak  ankles  and  corns  ?  And  didn't  I  convince  you  that 
you  could  eat  only  the  things  I  told  you  about?" 

"Don't  hit  a  man  when  he's  down,"  groaned  Hastings. 

"If  I  don't,  you'll  do  the  same  idiotic  trick  again 
when  I  get  you  up — if  I  get  you  up." 

Hastings  looked  quickly  at  him.  This  was  the  first 
time  Charlton  had  ever  expressed  a  doubt  about  his  liv 
ing.  "Do  you  mean  that?"  he  said  hoarsely.  "Or  are 
you  just  trying  to  scare  me?" 

"Both,"  said  Charlton.  "I'll  do  my  best,  but  I  can't 
promise.  I've  lost  confidence  in  you.  No  wonder  doc 
tors,  after  they've  been  in  practice  a  few  years,  stop 
talking  food  and  digestion  to  their  patients.  I've  never 
been  able  to  convince  a  single  human  being  that  appe 
tite  is  not  the  sign  of  health,  and  yielding  to  it  the  way 
to  health.  But  I've  made  lots  of  people  angry  and  have 
lost  their  trade.  I  had  hopes  of  you.  You  were  such 
a  hopeless  wreck.  But  no.  And  you  call  yourself  an 
intelligent  man !" 

"I'll  never  do  it  again,"  said  Hastings,  pleading, 
but  smiling,  too — Charlton's  way  of  talking  delighted 
him. 

313 


THE   CONFLICT 


"You  think  this  is  a  joke,"  said  Charlton,  shaking 
his  bullet  head.  "Have  you  any  affairs  to  settle?  If 
you  have,  send  for  your  lawyer  in  the  morning." 

Fear — the  Great  Fear — suddenly  laid  its  icy  long 
fingers  upon  the  throat  of  the  old  man.  He  gasped  and 
his  eyes  rolled.  "Don't  trifle  with  me,  Charlton,"  he 
muttered.  "You  know  you  will  pull  me  through." 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Charlton.  "I  promise  noth 
ing.  I'm  serious  about  the  lawyer." 

"I  don't  want  no  lawyer  hanging  round  my  bed," 
growled  the  old  man.  "It'd  kill  me.  I've  got  nothing 
to  settle.  I  don't  run  things  with  loose  ends.  And 
there's  Jinny  and  Marthy  and  the  boy — share  and  share 
alike." 

"Well — you're  in  no  immediate  danger.  I'll  come 
early  to-morrow." 

"Wait  till  I  get  to  sleep." 

"You'll  be  asleep  as  soon  as  the  light's  down.  But 
I'll  stop  a  few  minutes  and  talk  to  your  daughter." 

Charlton  found  Jane  at  the  window  in  the  dressing 
room  next  her  father's  bedroom.  He  said  loudly  enough 
for  the  old  man  to  overhear : 

"Your  father's  all  right  for  the  present,  so  you 
needn't  worry.  Come  downstairs  with  me.  He's  to  go 
to  sleep  now." 

Jane  went  in  and  kissed  the  bulging  bony  forehead. 
"Good  night,  popsy." 

"Good  night,  Jinny  dear,"  he  said  in  a  softer  voice 
than  she  had  ever  heard  from  him.  "I'm  feeling  very 

314- 


THE   CONFLICT 


comfortable  now,  and  sleepy.  If  anything  should  hap 
pen,  don't  forget  what  I  said  about  not  temptin'  your 
brother  by  trustin'  him  too  fur.  Look  after  your  own 
affairs.  Take  Mr.  Haswell's  advice.  He's  stupid,  but 
he's  honest  and  careful  and  safe.  You  might  talk  to 
Dr.  Charlton  about  things,  too.  He's  straight,  and 
knows  what's  what.  He's  one  of  them  people  that  gives 
everybody  good  advice  but  themselves.  If  anything 
should  happen " 

"But  nothing's  going  to  happen,  popsy." 

"It  might.  I  don't  seem  to  care  as  much  as  I  did. 
I'm  so  tarnation  tired.  I  reckon  the  goin'  ain't  as  bad 
as  I  always  calculated.  I  didn't  know  how  tired  they 
felt  and  anxious  to  rest." 

"I'll  turn  down  the  light.  The  nurse  is  right  in 
there." 

"Yes — turn  the  light.  If  anything  should  happen, 
there's  an  envelope  in  the  top  drawer  in  my  desk  for 
Dr.  Charlton.  But  don't  tell  him  till  I'm  gone.  I 
don't  trust  nobody,  and  if  he  knowed  there  was  some 
thing  waiting,  why,  there's  no  telling " 

The  old  man  had  drowsed  off.  Jane  lowered  the  light 
and  went  down  to  join  Charlton  on  the  front  veranda, 
where  he  was  smoking  a  cigarette.  She  said : 

"He's  asleep." 

"He's  all  right  for  the  next  few  days,"  said 
Charlton.  "After  that — I  don't  know.  I'm  very 
doubtful." 

Jane  was  depressed,  but  not  so  depressed  as  she  would 
315 


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have  been  had  not  her  father  so  long  looked  like  death 
and  so  often  been  near  dying. 

"Stay  at  home  until  I  see  how  this  is  going  to  turn 
out.  Telephone  your  sister  to  be  within  easy  call.  But 
don't  let  her  come  here.  She's  not  fit  to  be  about  an 
ill  person.  The  sight  of  her  pulling  a  long,  sad  face 
might  carry  him  off  in  a  fit  of  rage." 

Jane  observed  him  with  curiosity  in  the  light  stream 
ing  from  the  front  hall.  "You're  a  very  practical  per 
son — aren't  you?"  she  said. 

"No  romance,  no  idealism,  you  mean  ?" 

"Yes." 

He  laughed  in  his  plain,  healthy  way.  "Not  a  frill," 
said  he.  "I'm  interested  only  in  facts.  They  keep  me 
busy  enough." 

"You're  not  married,  are  you  ?" 

"Not  yet.  But  I  shall  be  as  soon  as  I  find  a  woman 
I  want." 

"7f  you  can  get  her." 

"I'll  get  her,  all  right,"  replied  he.  "No  trouble 
about  that.  The  woman  I  want'll  want  me." 

"I'm  eager  to  see  her,"  said  Jane.  "She'll  be  a  queer 
one." 

"Not  necessarily,"  said  he.  "But  I'll  make  her  a 
queer  one  before  I  get  through  with  her — queer,  in  my 
sense,  meaning  sensible  and  useful." 

"You  remind  me  so  often  of  Victor  Dorn,  yet  you're 
not  at  all  like  him." 

"We're  in  the  same  business — trying  to  make  the 
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human  race  fit  to  associate  with.  He  looks  after  the 
minds ;  I  look  after  the  bodies.  Mine's  the  humbler 
branch  of  the  business,  perhaps — but  it's  equally  neces 
sary,  and  it  comes  first.  The  chief  thing  that's  wrong 
with  human  nature  is  bad  health.  I'm  getting  the 
world  ready  for  Victor." 

"You  like  him?" 

"I  worship  him,"  said  Charlton  in  his  most  matter-of- 
fact  way. 

"Yet  he's  just  the  opposite  of  you.    He's  an  idealist." 

"Who  told  you  that?"  laughed  Charlton.  "He's  the 
most  practical,  sensible  man  in  this  town.  You  people 
think  he's  a  crank  because  he  isn't  crazy  about  money 
or  about  stepping  round  on  the  necks  of  his  fellow 
beings.  The  truth  is,  he's  got  a  sense  of  proportion — 
and  a  sense  of  humor — and  an  idea  of  a  rational  happy 
life.  You're  still  barbarians,  while  he's  a  civilized  man. 
Ever  seen  an  ignorant  yap  jeer  when  a  neat,  clean,  well- 
dressed  person  passed  by?  Well,  you  people  jeering  at 
Victor  Dorn  are  like  that  yap." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  Jane  hastily  and  earnestly. 

"No,  you  don't,"  replied  Charlton,  tossing  away  the 
end  of  his  cigarette.  "And  so  much  the  worse  for  you. 
Good-night,  lady."  And  away  he  strode  into  the  dark 
ness,  leaving  her  amused,  yet  with  a  peculiar  sense  of 
her  own  insignificance. 

Charlton  was  back  again  early  the  next  morning  and 
spent  that  day — and  a  large  part  of  many  days  there 
after — in  working  at  the  wreck,  Martin  Hastings,  in- 
21  317 


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specting  known  weak  spots,  searching  for  unknown 
ones,  patching  here  and  there,  trying  all  the  schemes 
teeming  in  his  ingenious  and  supremely  sensible  mind 
in  the  hope  of  setting  the  wreck  afloat  again.  He  could 
not  comprehend  why  the  old  man  remained  alive.  He 
had  seen  many  a  human  being  go  who  was  in  health,  in 
comparison  with  this  conglomerate  of  diseases  and  frail 
ties  ;  yet  life  there  was,  and  a  most  tenacious  life.  He 
worked  and  watched,  and  from  day  to  day  put  off  sug 
gesting  that  they  telegraph  for  the  son.  The  com 
ing  of  his  son  might  shake  Martin's  conviction  that  he 
would  get  well ;  it  seemed  to  Charlton  that  that  convic 
tion  was  the  one  thread  holding  his  patient  from  the 
abyss  where  darkness  and  silence  reign  supreme. 

Jane  could  not  leave  the  grounds.  If  she  had  she 
would  have  seen  Victor  Dorn  either  not  at  all  or  at  a 
distance.  For  the  campaign  was  now  approaching  its 
climax. 

The  public  man  is  always  two  wholly  different  per 
sonalities.  There  is  the  man  the  public  sees — and  fancies 
it  knows.  There  is  the  man  known  only  to  his  intimates, 
known  imperfectly  to  them,  perhaps  an  unknown  quan 
tity  even  to  himself  until  the  necessity  for  decisive  ac 
tion  reveals  him  to  himself  and  to  those  in  a  position  to 
see  what  he  really  did.  Unfortunately,  it  is  not  the  man 
the  public  sees  but  the  hidden  man  who  is  elected  to 
the  office.  Nothing  could  be  falser  than  the  old  saw  that 
sooner  or  later  a  man  stands  revealed.  Sometimes,  as 
we  well  know,  history  has  not  found  out  a  man  after  a 


THE   CONFLICT 


thousand  years  of  studying  him.  And  the  most  familiar, 
the  most  constantly  observed  men  in  public  life  often 
round  out  a  long  career  without  ever  having  aroused  in 
the  public  more  than  a  faint  and  formless  suspicion  as 
to  the  truth v about  them. 

The  chief  reason  for  this  is  that,  in  studying  a  char 
acter,  no  one  is  content  with  the  plain  and  easy  way  of 
reaching  an  understanding  of  it — the  way  of  looking 
only  at  its  acts.  We  all  love  to  dabble  in  the  metaphysi 
cal,  to  examine  and  weigh  motives  and  intentions,  to 
compare  ourselves  and  make  wildly  erroneous  judgment 
inevitable  by  listening  to  the  man's  words — his  profes 
sions,  always  more  or  less  dishonest,  though  perhaps 
not  always  deliberately  so. 

In  that  Remsen  City  campaign  the  one  party  that 
could  profit  by  the  full  and  clear  truth,  and  therefore 
was  eager  for  the  truth  as  to  everything  and  everybody, 
was  the  Workingmen's  League.  The  Kelly  crowd,  the 
House  gang,  the  Citizens'  Alliance,  all  had  their  ugly 
secrets,  their  secret  intentions  different  from  their  pub 
lic  professions.  All  these  were  seeking  office  and  power 
with  a  view  to  increasing  or  perpetuating  or  protecting 
various  abuses,  however  ardently  they  might  attack, 
might  perhaps  honestly  intend  to  end,  certain  other  and 
much  smaller  abuses.  The  Workingmen's  League  said 
that  it  would  end  every  abuse  existing  law  did  not  se 
curely  protect,  and  it  meant  what  it  said.  Its  campaign 
fund  was  the  dues  paid  in  by  its  members  and  the  profits 
from  the  New  Day.  Its  financial  books  were  open 

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for  free  inspection.     Not  so  the  others — and  that  in  it 
self  was  proof  enough  of  sinister  intentions. 

Under  Victor  Dora's  shrewd  direction,  the  League 
candidates  published,  each  man  in  a  sworn  statement,  a 
complete  description  of  all  the  property  owned  by  him 
self  and  by  his  wife.  "The  character  of  a  man's  prop 
erty,"  said  the  New  Day,  "is  an  indication  of  how 
that  man  will  act  in  public  affairs.  Therefore,  every 
candidate  for  public  trust  owes  it  to  the  people  to  tell 
them  just  what  his  property  interests  are.  The  League 
candidates  do  this — and  an  effective  answer  the  schedules 
make  to  the  charge  that  the  League's  candidates  are 
men  who  have  'no  stake  in  the  community.'  Now,  let 
Mr.  Sawyer,  Mr.  Hull,  Mr.  Galland  and  the  rest  of  the 
League's  opponents  do  likewise.  Let  us  read  how  many 
shares  of  water  and  ice  stock  Mr.  Sawyer  owns.  Let  us 
hear  from  Mr.  Hull  about  his  traction  holdings — these 
of  the  Hull  estate  from  which  he  draws  his  entire  in 
come.  As  for  Mr.  Galland,  it  would  be  easier  for  him 
to  give  the  list  of  public  and  semi-public  corporation  ; 
in  which  he  is  not  largely  interested.  But  let  him  be 
specific,  since  he  asks  the  people  to  trust  him  as  judge 
between  them  and  those  corporations  of  which  he  is  al 
most  as  large  an  owner  as  is  his  father-in-law." 

This  line  of  attack — and  the  publication  of  the 
largest  contributors  to  the  Republican  and  Democratic- 
Reform  campaign  fund — caused  a  great  deal  of  pub 
lic  and  private  discussion.  Large  crowds  cheered  Hull 
when  he,  without  doing  the  charges  the  honor  of  repeat- 

320 


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ing  them,  denounced  the  "undignified  and  demagogic 
methods  of  our  desperate  opponents."  The  smaller 
Sawyer  crowds  applauded  Sawyer  when  he  waxed  indig 
nant  over  the  attempts  of  those  "socialists  and  an 
archists,  haters  of  this  free  country  and  spitters  upon 
its  glorious  flag,  to  set  poor  against  rich,  to  destroy  our 
splendid  American  tradition  of  a  free  field  and  no  fa 
vors,  and  let  the  best  man  win !" 

Sawyer,  and  Davy,  all  the  candidates  of  the  machines 
and  the  reformers  for  that  matter,  made  excellent  public 
appearances.  They  discoursed  eloquently  about  popu 
lar  rights  and  wrongs.  They  denounced  corruption; 
they  stood  strongly  for  the  right  and  renounced  and  de 
nounced  the  devil  and  all  his  works.  They  promised  to 
do  far  more  for  the  people  than  did  the  Leaguers;  for 
Victor  Dorn  had  trained  his  men  to  tell  the  exact  truth 
— the  difficulty  of  doing  anything  for  the  people  at  any 
near  time  or  in  any  brief  period  because  at  a  single 
election  but  a  small  part  of  the  effective  offices  could  be 
changed,  and  sweeping  changes  must  be  made  before 
there  could  be  sweeping  benefits.  "We'll  do  all  we  can," 
was  their  promise.  "Their  county  government  and  their 
state  government  and  their  courts  won't  let  us  do  much. 
But  a  beginning  has  to  be  made.  Let's  make  it !" 

David  Hull's  public  appearance  was  especially  good. 
Not  so  effective  as  it  has  now  become,  because  he  was 
only  a  novice  at  campaigning  in  that  year.  But  he 
looked,  well — handsome,  yet  not  too  handsome,  upper 
class,  but  not  arrogant,  serious,  frank  and  kindly.  And 

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he  talked  in  a  plain,  honest  way — you  felt  that  no  in 
terest,  however  greedy,  desperate  and  powerful,  would 
dare  approach  that  man  with  an  improper  proposal — 
and  you  quite  forgot  in  real  affairs  the  crude  im 
proper  proposal  is  never  the  method  of  approach. 
When  Davy,  with  grave  emotion,  referred  to  the  "piti 
ful  efforts  to  smirch  the  personal  character  of  candi 
dates,"  you  could  not  but  burn  with  scorn  of  the  Victor 
Dorn  tactics.  What  if  Hull  did  own  gas  and  water 
and  ice  and  traction  and  railway  stocks  ?  Mustn't  a  rich 
man  invest  his  money  somehow?  And  how  could  he 
more  creditably  invest  it  than  in  local  enterprises  and 
in  enterprises  that  opened  up  the  country  and  gave  em 
ployment  to  labor?  What  if  the  dividends  were  im 
properly,  even  criminally,  earned?  Must  he  therefore 
throw  the  dividends  paid  him  into  the  street?  As  for 
a  man  of  such  associations  and  financial  interests  being 
unfit  fairly  to  administer  public  affairs,  what  balder 
dash  !  Who  could  be  more  fit  than  this  educated,  high- 
minded  man,  of  large  private  means,  willing  to  devote 
himself  to  the  public  service  instead  of  drinking  himself 
to  death  or  doing  nothing  at  all.  You  would  have  felt, 
as  you  looked  at  Davy  and  listened  to  him,  that  it  was 
little  short  of  marvelous  that  a  man  could  be  so  self- 
sacrificing  as  to  consent  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  low  mud 
slingers  for  no  reward  but  an  office  with  a  salary  of 
three  thousand  a  year.  And  you  would  have  been  afraid 
that,  if  something  was  not  done  to  stop  these  mud 
slingers,  such  men  as  David  Hull  would  abandon  their 

322 


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patriotic  efforts  to  save  their  country — and  then  what 
would  become  of  the  country  ? 

But  Victor  and  his  associates — on  the  platform,  in 
the  paper,  in  posters  and  dodgers  and  leaflets — con 
tinued  to  press  home  the  ugly  questions — and  continued 
to  call  attention  to  the  fact  that,  while  there  had  been 
ample  opportunity,  none  of  the  candidates  had  an 
swered  any  of  the  questions.  And  presently — keeping 
up  this  line  of  attack — Victor  opened  out  in  another. 
He  had  Falconer,  the  League  candidate  for  judge,  draw 
up  a  careful  statement  of  exactly  what  each  public  of 
ficer  could  do  under  existing  law  to  end  or  to  check  the 
most  flagrant  of  the  abuses  from  which  the  people  of 
Remsen  City  were  suffering.  With  this  statement  as  a 
basis,  he  formulated  a  series  of  questions — "Yes  or 
no?  If  you  are  elected,  will  you  or  will  you  not?" 
The  League  candidates  promptly  gave  the  specific 
pledges.  Sawyer  dodged.  David  Hull  was  more  adroit. 
He  held  up  a  copy  of  the  list  of  questions  at  a  big 
meeting  in  Odd  Fellows'  Hall. 

"Our  opponents  have  resorted  to  a  familiar  trick — 
the  question  and  the  pledge."  (Applause.  Sensation. 
Fear  lest  "our  candidate"  was  about  to  "put  his  foot  in 
it.")  "We  need  resort  to  no  tricks.  I  promptly  and 
frankly,  for  our  whole  ticket,  answer  their  questions.  I 
say,  'We  will  lay  hold  of  any  and  every  abuse,  as  soon  as 
it  presents  itself,  and  will  smash  it.9  ' 

Applause,  cheers,  whistlings — a  demonstration  lasting 
nearly  five  minutes  by  a  watch  held  by  Gamaliel 

323 


THE   CONFLICT 


Tooker,  who  had  a  mania  for  gathering  records  of  all 
kinds  and  who  had  voted  for  every  Republican  candi 
date  for  President  since  the  party  was  founded.  Davy 
did  not  again  refer  to  Victor  Dorn's  questions.  But 
Victor  continued  to  press  them  and  to  ask  whether  a 
public  officer  ought  not  to  go  and  present  himself  to 
abuses,  instead  of  waiting  for  them  to  hunt  him  out  and 
present  themselves  to  him. 

Such  was  the  campaign  as  the  public  saw  it.  And 
such  was  in  reality  the  campaign  of  the  Leaguers.  But 
the  real  campaign — the  one  conducted  by  Kelly  and 
House — was  entirely  different.  They  were  not  talking ; 
they  were  working. 

They  were  working  on  a  plan  based  somewhat  after 
this  fashion: 

In  former  and  happier  days,  when  people  left  politics 
to  politicians  and  minded  their  own  business,  about 
ninety-five  per  cent,  of  the  voters  voted  their  straight 
party  tickets  like  good  soldiers.  Then  politics  wras  a 
high-class  business,  and  politicians  devoted  themselves 
to  getting  out  the  full  party  vote  and  to  buying  or  ca 
joling  to  one  side  or  the  other  the  doubtful  ten  per  cent 
that  held  the  balance  of  power.  That  golden  age, 
however,  had  passed.  People  had  gotten  into  the  habit 
of  fancying  that,  because  certain  men  had  grown  very, 
very  rich  through  their  own  genius  for  money-making, 
supplemented  perhaps  by  accidental  favors  from  law 
and  public  officials,  therefore  politics  in  some  way  might 
possibly  concern  the  private  citizen,  might  account  for 

324 


THE   CONFLICT 


the  curious  discrepancy  between  his  labor  and  its  re 
ward.  The  impression  was  growing  that,  while  the 
energy  of  the  citizen  determined  the  production  of 
wealth,  it  was  politics  that  determined  the  distribution 
of  wealth.  And  under  the  influence  of  this  impression, 
the  percentage  of  sober,  steady,  reliable  voters  who 
"stood  by  the  grand  old  party"  had  shrunk  to  about 
seventy,  while  the  percentage  of  voters  who  had  to  be 
worried  about  had  grown  to  about  thirty. 

The  Kelly-House  problem  was,  what  shall  we  do  as 
to  that  annoying  thirty  per  cent? 

Kelly — for  he  was  the  brain  of  the  bi-partisan  ma 
chine,  proposed  to  throw  the  election  to  the  House-Re 
form  "combine."  His  henchmen  and  House's  made  a 
careful  poll,  and  he  sat  up  all  night  growing  haggard 
and  puffy-eyed  over  the  result.  According  to  this  poll, 
not  only  was  the  League's  entire  ticket  to  be  elected,  but 
also  Galland,  despite  his  having  the  Republican,  the 
Democratic  and  the  Reform  nominations,  was  to  be 
beaten  by  the  League's  Falconer.  He  couldn't  under 
stand  it.  The  Sawyer  meetings  were  quite  up  to  his  ex 
pectations  and  indicated  that  the  Republican  rank  and 
file  was  preparing  to  swallow  the  Sawyer  dose  without 
blinking.  The  Alliance  and  the  Democratic  meetings 
were  equally  satisfactory.  Hull  was  "making  a  hit." 
Everywhere  he  had  big  crowds  and  enthusiasm.  The 
League  meetings  were  only  slightly  better  attended  than 
during  the  last  campaign ;  no  indication  there  of  the 
League  "landslide." 

325 


THE    CONFLICT 


Yet  Kelly  could  not,  dared  not,  doubt  that  poll.  It 
was  his  only  safe  guide.  And  it  assured  him  that  the 
long-dreaded  disaster  was  at  hand.  In  vain  was  the 
clever  trick  of  nominating  a  popular,  "clean"  young  re 
former  and  opposing  him  with  an  unpopular  regular  of 
the  most  offensive  type — more  offensive  even  than  a  pro 
fessional  politician  of  unsavory  record.  At  last  victory 
was  to  reward  the  tactics  of  Victor  Dorn,  the  slow,  pa 
tient  building  which  for  several  years  now  had  been 
rasping  the  nerves  of  Boss  Kelly. 

What  should  he  do? 

It  was  clear  to  him  that  the  doom  of  the  old  system 
was  settled.  The  plutocrats,  the  upper-class  crowd — the 
"silk  stockings,"  as  they  had  been  called  from  the  days 
when  men  wore  knee-breeches — they  fancied  that  this 
nation-wide  movement  was  sporadic,  would  work  out  in 
a  few  years,  and  that  the  people  would  return  to  their 
allegiance.  Kelly  had  no  such  delusions.  Issuing  from 
the  depths  of  the  people,  he  understood.  They  were 
learning  a  little  something  at  last.  They  were  discover 
ing  that  the  ever  higher  prices  for  everything  and  sta 
tionary  or  falling  wages  and  salaries  had  some  intimate 
relation  with  politics ;  that  at  the  national  capitol,  at 
the  state  capitol,  in  the  county  courthouse,  in  the  city 
hall  their  share  of  the  nation's  vast  annual  production 
of  wealth  was  being  determined — and  that  the  persons 
doing  the  dividing,  though  elected  by  them,  were  in  the 
employ  of  the  plutocracy.  Kelly,  seeing  and  compre 
hending,  felt  that  it  behooved  him  to  get  for  his  mas- 

326 


THE   CONFLICT 


ters — and  for  himself — all  that  could  be  got  in  the  brief 
remaining  time.  Not  that  he  was  thinking  of  giving  up 
the  game ;  nothing  so  foolish  as  that.  It  would  be  many 
a  year  before  the  plutocracy  could  be  routed  out,  before 
the  people  would  have  the  intelligence  and  the  persist 
ence  to  claim  and  to  hold  their  own.  In  the  meantime, 
they  could  be  fooled  and  robbed  by  a  hundred  tricks. 
He  was  not  a  constitutional  lawyer,  but  he  had  practical 
good  sense,  and  could  enjoy  the  joke  upon  the  people  in 
their  entanglement  in  the  toils  of  their  own  making. 
Through  fear  of  governmental  tyranny  they  had  di 
vided  authority  among  legislators,  executives  and 
judges,  national,  state,  local.  And,  behold,  outside  of 
the  government,  out  where  they  had  never  dreamed 
of  looking,  had  grown  up  a  tyranny  that  was  per 
petuating  itself  by  dodging  from  one  of  these  di 
vided  authorities  to  another,  eluding  capture,  wearing 
out  the  not  too  strong  perseverance  of  popular 
pursuit. 

But,  thanks  to  Victor  Dorn,  the  local  graft  was  about 
to  be  taken  away  from  the  politicians  and  the  plutoc 
racy.  How  put  off  that  unpleasant  event?  Obviously, 
in  the  only  way  left  unclosed.  The  election  must  be 
stolen. 

It  is  a  very  human  state  of  mind  to  feel  that  what  one 
wants  somehow  has  already  become  in  a  sense  one's  prop 
erty.  It  is  even  more  profoundly  human  to  feel  that 
what  one  has  had,  however  wrongfully,  cannot  justly 
be  taken  away.  So  Mr.  Kelly  did  not  regard  himself  as 

327 


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a  thief,  taking  what  did  not  belong  to  him ;  no,  he  was 
holding  on  to  and  defending  his  own. 

Victor  Dorn  had  not  been  in  politics  since  early  boy 
hood  without  learning  how  the  political  game  is  con 
ducted  in  all  its  branches. 

Because  there  had  never  been  the  remotest  chance  of 
victory,  Victor  had  never  made  preelection  polls  of  his 
party.  So  the  first  hint  that  he  got  of  there  being  a 
real  foundation  for  the  belief  of  some  of  his  associates 
in  an  impending  victory  was  when  he  found  out  that 
Kelly  and  House  were  "colonizing"  voters,  and  were  se 
lecting  election  officers  with  an  eye  to  "dirty  work." 
These  preparations,  he  knew,  could  not  be  making  for 
the  same  reason  as  in  the  years  before  the  "gentlemen's 
agreement"  between  the  Republican  and  the  Democratic 
machines.  Kelly,  he  knew,  wanted  House  and  the  Al 
liance  to  win.  Therefore,  the  colonizations  in  the  slums 
and  the  appointing  of  notorious  buckos  to  positions 
where  they  would  control  the  ballot  boxes  could  be  di 
rected  only  against  the  Workingmen's  League.  Kelly 
must  have  accurate  information  that  the  League  was 
likely,  or  at  least  not  unlikely,  to  win. 

Victor  had  thought  he  had  so  schooled  himself  that 
victory  and  defeat  were  mere  words  to  him.  He  soon 
realized  how  he  had  overestimated  the  power  of  phi 
losophy  over  human  nature.  During  that  campaign  he 
had  been  imagining  that  he  was  putting  all  his  ability, 
all  his  energy,  all  his  resourcefulness  into  the  fight.  He 
now  discovered  his  mistake.  Hope — definite  hope — of 

328 


THE   CONFLICT 


victory  had  hardly  entered  his  mind  before  he  was  or 
ganizing  and  leading  on  such  a  campaign  as  Remsen 
City  had  never  known  in  all  its  history — and  Remsen 
City  was  in  a  state  where  politics  is  the  chief  distraction 
of  the  people.  Sleep  left  him ;  he  had  no  need  of  sleep. 
Day  and  night  his  brain  worked,  pouring  out  a  steady 
stream  of  ideas.  He  became  like  a  gigantic  electric 
storage  battery  to  which  a  hundred,  a  thousand  small 
batteries  come  for  renewal.  He  charged  his  associates 
afresh  each  day.  And  they  in  turn  became  amazingly 
more  powerful  forces  for  acting  upon  the  minds  of  the 
people. 

In  the  last  week  of  the  campaign  it  became  common 
talk  throughout  the  city  that  the  "Dorn  crowd"  would 
probably  carry  the  election.  Kelly  was  the  only  one 
of  the  opposition  leaders  who  could  maintain  a  calm 
front.  Kelly  was  too  seasoned  a  gambler  even  to  show 
his  feelings  in  his  countenance,  but,  had  he  been  showing 
them,  his  following  would  not  have  been  depressed,  for 
he  had  made  preparations  to  meet  and  overcome  any  ma 
jority  short  of  unanimity  which  the  people  might  roll 
up  against  him.  The  discouragement  in  the  House- Alli 
ance  camps  became  so  apparent  that  Kelly  sent  his  chief 
lieutenant,  Wellman,  successor  to  the  fugitive  Rivers,  to 
House  and  to  David  Hull  with  a  message.  It  was  deliv 
ered  to  Hull  in  this  form: 

"The  old  man  says  he  wants  you  to  stop  going  round 
with  your  chin  knocking  against  your  knees.  He  says 
everybody  is  saying  you  have  given  up  the  fight." 

329 


THE   CONFLICT 


"Our  meetings  these  last  few  days  are  very  discourag 
ing,"  said  Davy  gloomily. 

"What's  "meetin's?"  retorted  Wellman.  "You  fellows 
that  shoot  off  your  mouths  think  you're  doing  the  cam 
paigning.  But  the  real  stuff  is  being  doped  up  by  us 
fellows  who  ain't  seen  or  heard.  The  old  man  says  you 
are  going  to  win.  That's  straight.  He  knows.  It's 
only  a  question  of  the  size  of  your  majority.  So  pull 
yourself  together,  Mr.  Hull,  and  put  the  ginger  back 
into  your  speeches,  and  stir  up  that  there  gang  of 
dudes.  What  a  gang  of  Johnnies  and  quitters  they 
are!" 

Hull  was  looking  directly  and  keenly  at  the  secret 
messenger.  Upon  his  lips  was  a  question  he  dared  not 
ask.  Seeing  the  impudent,  disdainful  smile  in  Wellman's 
eyes,  he  hastily  shifted  his  glance.  It  was  most  uncom 
fortable,  this  suspicion  of  the  hidden  meaning  of  the 
Kelly  message — a  suspicion  almost  confirmed  by  that 
mocking  smile  of  the  messenger.  Hull  said  with  em 
barrassment  : 

"Tell  Mr.  Kelly  I'm  much  obliged." 

"And  you'll  begin  to  make  a  fight  again?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Davy  impatiently. 

When  he  was  alone  he  became  once  more  involved  in 
one  of  those  internal  struggles  to  prevent  himself  from 
seeing — and  smelling — a  hideous  and  malodorous  truth. 
These  struggles  were  painfully  frequent.  The  only  con 
solation  the  young  reformer  found  was  that  they  were 
increasingly  less  difficult  to  end  in  the  way  such  strug- 

830 


THE    CONFLICT 


gles  must  be  ended  if  a  high-minded  young  man  is  to 
make  a  career  in  "practical"  life. 

On  election  day  after  he  had  voted  he  went  for  a  long 
walk  in  the  woods  to  the  south  of  the  town,  leaving  word 
at  his  headquarters  what  direction  he  had  taken.  After 
walking  two  hours  he  sat  down  on  a  log  in  the  shade 
near  where  the  highroad  crossed  Foaming  Creek.  He 
became  so  absorbed  in  his  thoughts  that  he  sprang  to 
his  feet  with  a  wild  look  when  Selma's  voice  said,  close 
by: 

"May  I  interrupt  a  moment,  Mr.  Hull  ?" 

He  recovered  slowly.  His  cheeks  were  pale  and  his 
voice  uncertain  as  he  replied : 

"\ou?  I  beg  your  pardon.  This  campaign  has 
played  smash  with  my  nerves." 

He  now  noted  that  she  was  regarding  him  with  a 
glance  so  intense  that  it  seemed  to  concentrate  all  the 
passion  and  energy  in  that  slim,  nervous  body  of  hers. 
He  said  uncomfortably : 

"You  wished  to  see  me?" 

"I  wonder  what  you  were  thinking  about,"  she  said  in 
her  impetuous,  direct  way.  "It  makes  me  almost  afraid 
to  ask  what  I  came  to  ask." 

"Won't  you  sit?"  said  he. 

"No,  thanks,"  replied  she. 

"Then  you'll  compel  me  to  stand.  And  I'm  horribly 
tired." 

She  seated  herself  upon  the  log.  He  made  himself 
comfortable  at  its  other  end. 

331 


THE    CONFLICT 


"I've  just  come  from  Victor  Dorn's  house,"  said  she. 
"There  was  a  consultation  among  the  leaders  of  our 
party.  We  have  learned  that  your  people — Kelly  and 
House — are  going  to  steal  the  election  on  the  count  this 
evening.  They  are  committing  wholesale  frauds  now — 
sending  round  gangs  of  repeaters,  intimidating  our 
voters,  openly  buying  votes  at  the  polling  places — pay 
ing  men  as  much  not  to  vote  as  they  usually  pay  for 
votes." 

Davy,  though  latterly  he  had  grown  so  much  older 
and  graver  that  no  one  now  thought  of  him  as  Davy, 
contrived  to  muster  a  smile  of  amusement.  "You 
oughtn't  to  let  them  deceive  you  with  that  silly  talk, 
Miss  Gordon.  The  losers  always  indulge  in  it.  Your 
good  sense  must  tell  you  how  foolish  it  is.  The 
police  are  on  guard,  and  the  courts  of  justice  are 
open." 

"Yes — the  police  are  on  guard — to  protect  fraud  and 
to  drive  us  away  from  the  polls.  And  the  courts  are 
open — but  not  for  us." 

David  was  gentle  with  her.  "I  know  how  sincere  you 
are,  Selma,"  said  he.  "No  doubt  you  believe  those 
things.  Perhaps  Dorn  believes  them,  also — from  re 
peating  them  so  often.  But  all  the  same  I'm  sorry  to 
hear  you  say  them." 

He  tried  to  look  at  her.  He  found  that  his  eyes  were 
more  comfortable  when  his  glance  was  elsewhere. 

"This  has  been  a  sad  campaign  to  me,"  he  went  on. 
"I  did  not  appreciate  before  what  demagogery  meant 

332 


THE   CONFLICT 


— how  dangerous  it  is — how  wicked,  how  criminally 
wicked  it  is  for  men  to  stir  up  the  lower  classes  against 
the  educated  leadership  of  the  community. 

Selma  laughed  contemptuously.  "What  nonsense, 
David  Hull — and  from  you!"  she  cried.  "By  educated 
leadership  do  you  mean  the  traction  and  gas  and  water 
and  coal  and  iron  and  produce  thieves  ?  Or  do  you  mean 
the  officials  and  the  judges  who  protect  them  and  license 
them  to  rob?"  Her  eyes  flashed.  "At  this  very  mo 
ment,  in  our  town,  those  thieves  and  their  agents,  the 
police  and  the  courts,  are  committing  the  most  frightful 
crime  known  to  a  free  people.  Yet  the  masses  are  sub 
mitting  peaceably.  How  long  the  upper  class  has  to  in 
dulge  in  violence,  and  how  savagely  cruel  it  has  to  be, 
before  the  people  even  murmur.  But  I  didn't  come  here 
to  remind  you  of  what  you  already  know.  I  came  to 
ask  you,  as  a  man  whom  I  have  respected,  to  assert  his 
manhood — if  there  is  any  of  it  left  after  this  campaign 
of  falsehood  and  shifting." 

"Selma!"  he  protested  energetically,  but  still  avoid 
ing  her  eyes. 

"Those  wretches  are  stealing  that  election  for  you, 
David  Hull.  Are  you  going  to  stand  for  it?  Or,  will 
you  go  into  town  and  force  Kelly  to  stop?" 

"If  anything  wrong  is  being  done  by  Kelly,"  said 
David,  "it  must  be  for  Sawyer." 

Selma  rose.  "At  our  consultation,"  said  she  quietly 
and  even  with  no  suggestion  of  repressed  emotion,  "they 
debated  coming  to  you  and  laying  the  facts  before  you. 
92  333 


THE    CONFLICT 


They  decided  against  it.  They  were  right;  I  was 
wrong.  I  pity  you,  David  Hull.  Good-by." 

She  walked  away.  He  hesitated,  observing  her.  His 
eyes  lighted  up  with  the  passion  he  believed  his  good 
sense  had  conquered.  "Selma,  don't  misjudge  me!"  he 
cried,  following  her.  "I  am  not  the  scoundrel  they're 
making  you  believe  me.  I  love  you !" 

She  wheeled  upon  him  so  fiercely  that  he  started  back. 
"How  dare  you  !"  she  said,  her  voice  choking  with  anger. 
"You  miserable  fraud!  You  bellwether  for  the  plutoc 
racy,  to  lead  reform  movements  off  on  a  false  scent,  off 
into  the  marshes  where  they'll  be  suffocated."  She 
looked  at  him  from  head  to  foot  with  a  withering  glance. 
"No  doubt,  you'll  have  what's  called  a  successful  career. 
You'll  be  their  traitor  leader  for  the  radicals  they  want 
to  bring  to  confusion.  When  the  people  cry  for  a  re 
form  you'll  shout  louder  than  anybody  else — and  you'll 
be  made  leader — and  you'll  lead — into  the  marshes. 
Your  followers  will  perish,  but  you'll  come  back,  ready 
for  the  next  treachery  for  which  the  plutocracy  needs 
you.  And  you'll  look  honest  and  respectable — and 
you'll  talk  virtue  and  reform  and  justice.  But  you'll 
know  what  you  are  yourself.  David  Hull,  I  despise  you 
as  much  as  you  despise  yourself." 

He  did  not  follow  as  she  walked  away.  He  returned 
to  the  log,  and  slowly  reseated  himself.  He  was  glad  of 
the  violent  headache  that  made  thought  impossible. 

Remsen  City,  boss-ridden  since  the  Civil  War,  had  ex- 
334, 


THE    CONFLICT 


perienced  many  a  turbulent  election  day  and  night. 
The  rivalries  of  the  two  bosses,  contending  for  the  spoils 
where  the  electorate  was  evenly  divided,  had  made  the 
polling  places  in  the  poorer  quarters  dangerous  all  day 
and  scenes  of  rioting  at  night.  But  latterly  there  had 
been  a  notable  improvement.  People  who  entertained 
the  pleasant  and  widespread  delusion  that  statute  laws 
offset  the  habits  and  customs  of  men,  restrain  the  strong 
and  protect  the  weak,  attributed  the  improvement  to 
sundry  vigorously  worded  enactments  of  the  legislature 
on  the  subject  of  election  frauds.  In  fact,  the  real  bot 
tom  cause  of  the  change  was  the  "gentlemen's  agree 
ment"  between  the  two  party  machines  whereunder  both 
entered  the  service  of  the  same  master,  the  plutoc 
racy. 

Never  in  Remsen  City  history  had  there  been  grosser 
frauds  than  those  of  this  famous  election  day,  and  never 
had  the  frauds  been  so  open.  A  day  of  scandal  was 
followed  by  an  evening  of  shame ;  for  to  overcome  the 
League  the  henchmen  of  Kelly  and  House  had  to  do  a 
great  deal  of  counting  out  and  counting  in,  of  mutilat 
ing  ballots,  of  destroying  boxes  with  their  contents. 
Yet  never  had  Remsen  City  seen  so  peaceful  an  election. 
Representatives  of  the  League  were  at  every  polling 
place.  They  protested;  they  took  names  of  principals 
and  witnesses  in  each  case  of  real  or  suspected  fraud. 
They  appealed  to  the  courts  from  time  to  time  and  got 
rulings — always  against  them,  even  where  the  letter  of 
the  decision  was  in  their  favor.  They  did  all  this  in  the 


THE   CONFLICT 


quietest  manner  conceivable,  without  so  much  as  an  ex 
pression  of  indignation.  And  when  the  results  were  an 
nounced — a  sweeping  victory  for  Hull  and  the  fusion 
ticket,  Hugo  Galland  elected  by  five  hundred  over  Fal 
coner — the  Leaguers  made  no  counter  demonstration  as 
the  drunken  gangs  of  machine  heelers  paraded  in  the 
streets  with  bands  and  torches. 

Kelly  observed  and  was  uneasy.  What  could  be  the 
meaning  of  this  meek  acceptance  of  a  theft  so  flagrant 
that  the  whole  town  was  talking  about  it?  What  was 
Victor  Dorn's  "game"  ? 

He  discovered  the  next  day.  The  executive  commit 
tee  of  the  League  worked  all  night ;  the  League's  print 
ers  and  presses  worked  from  six  o'clock  in  the  morning 
until  ten.  At  half -past  ten  Remsen  City  was  flooded 
with  a  special  edition  of  the  New  Day,  given  away  by 
Leaguers  and  their  wives  and  sons  and  daughters — a 
monster  special  edition  paid  for  with  the  last  money  in 
the  League's  small  campaign  chest.  This  special  was  a 
full  account  of  the  frauds  that  had  been  committed. 
No  indictment  could  have  been  more  complete,  could 
have  carried  within  itself  more  convincing  proofs  of  the 
truth  of  its  charges.  The  New  Day  declared  that  the 
frauds  were  far  more  extensive  than  it  was  able  to 
prove ;  but  it  insisted  upon,  and  took  into  account,  only 
those  frauds  that  could  be  proved  in  a  "court  of  justice 
— if  Remsen  City  had  a  court  of  justice,  which  the 
treatment  of  the  League's  protectors  at  the  Courthouse 
yesterday  shows  that  it  has  not."  The  results  of  the 

336 


THE   CONFLICT 


League's  investigations  were  tabulated.  The  New  Day 
showed : 

First,  that  while  Harbinger,  the  League  candidate  for 
Mayor,  had  actually  polled  5,280  votes  at  least,  and 
David  Hull  had  polled  less  than  3,950,  the  election  had 
been  so  manipulated  that  in  the  official  count  4,827  votes 
were  given  to  Hull  and  3,980  votes  to  Harbinger. 

Second,  that  in  the  actual  vote  Falconer  had  beaten 
Hugo  Galland  by  1,230  at  least;  that  in  the  official 
count  Galland  was  declared  elected  by  a  majority  of 
672. 

Third,  that  these  results  were  brought  about  by 
wholesale  fraudulent  voting,  one  gang  of  twenty-two 
repeaters  casting  upwards  of  a  thousand  votes  at  the 
various  polling  places ;  also  by  false  counting,  the  num 
ber  of  votes  reported  exceeding  the  number  cast  by  be 
tween  two  and  three  thousand. 

As  a  piece  of  workmanship  the  document  was  an 
amazing  illustration  of  the  genius  of  Victor  Dora.  In 
stead  of  violence  against  violence,  instead  of  vague  ac 
cusation,  here  was  a  calm,  orderly  proof  of  the  League's 
case,  of  the  outrage  that  had  been  done  the  city  and  its 
citizens.  Before  night  fell  the  day  after  the  election 
there  was  no  one  in  Remsen  City  who  did  not  know  the 
truth. 

The  three  daily  newspapers  ignored  the  special.  They 
continued  to  congratulate  Remsen  City  upon  the  "vin 
dication  of  the  city's  fame  for  sound  political  sense,"  as 
if  there  had  been  no  protest  against  the  official  version 

337 


THE    CONFLICT 


of  the  election  returns.  Nor  did  the  press  of  the  state 
or  the  country  contain  any  reference  to  the  happenings 
at  Remsen  City.  But  Remsen  City  knew,  and  that  was 
the  main  point  sought  by  Victor  Dorn. 

A  committee  of  the  League  with  copies  of  the  special 
edition  and  transcripts  of  the  proofs  in  the  possession 
of  the  League  went  in  search  of  David  Hull  and  Hugo 
Galland.  Both  were  out  of  town,  "resting  in  retirement 
from  the  fatigue  of  the  campaign."  The  prosecuting 
attorney  of  the  county  was  seen,  took  the  documents, 
said  he  would  look  into  the  matter,  bowed  the  commit 
tee  out — and  did  as  Kelly  counted  on  his  doing.  The 
grand  jury  heard,  but  could  not  see  its  way  clear  to  re 
turning  indictments;  no  one  was  upon  a  grand  jury  in 
that  county  unless  he  had  been  passed  by  Kelly  or 
House.  Judge  Freilig  and  Judge  Lansing  referred  the 
committee  to  the  grand  jury  and  to  the  county  prose 
cutor. 

When  the  League  had  tried  the  last  avenue  to  official 
justice  and  had  found  the  way  barred,  House  meeting 
Kelly  in  the  Palace  Hotel  cafe,  said : 
"Well,  Richard,  I  guess  it's  all  over." 
Kelly  nodded.    "You've  got  away  with  the  goods." 
"I'm  surprised  at  Dorn's  taking  it  so  quietly,"  said 
House.    "I  rather  expected  he'd  make  trouble." 

Kelly  vented  a  short,  grunting  laugh.  "Trouble — 
hell !"  ejaculated  he.  "If  he'd  'a'  kicked  up  a  fight  we'd 
'a'  had  him.  But  he  was  too  'cute  for  that,  damn  him. 
So  next  time  he  wins." 

338 


THE   CONFLICT 


"Oh,  folks  ain't  got  no  memories — especially  for  poli 
tics,"  said  House  easily. 

"You'll  see,"  retorted  Kelly.  "The  next  mayor  of 
this  town'll  be  a  Leaguer,  and  by  a  majority  that  can't 
be  trifled  with.  So  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,  Joe. 
After  this  administration  there'll  be  a  long  stretch  of 
bad  weather  for  haying." 

"I'm  trying  to  get  hold  of  Hull,"  said  House,  and  it 
was  not  difficult  to  read  his  train  of  thought.  "I  was 
a  leetle  afraid  he  was  going  to  be  scared  by  that  docu 
ment  of  Dorn's — and  was  going  to  do  something 
crazy." 

Again  Kelly  emitted  his  queer  grunting  laugh.  "I 
guess  he  was  a  leetle  afraid  he  would,  too,  and  ran  away 
and  hid  to  get  back  his  nerve." 

"Oh,  he's  all  right.  He's  a  pushing,  level-headed  fel 
low,  and  won't  make  no  trouble.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Trouble?  I  should  say  not.  How  can  he — if  he 
takes  the  job?" 

To  which  obvious  logic  no  assent  was  necessary. 

Davy's  abrupt  departure  was  for  the  exact  reason 
Mr.  Kelly  ascribed.  And  he  had  taken  Hugo  with  him 
because  he  feared  that  he  would  say  or  do  something 
to  keep  the  scandal  from  dying  the  quick  death  of  all 
scandals.  There  was  the  less  difficulty  in  dissuading  him 
from  staying  to  sun  himself  in  the  glories  of  his  new 
rank  and  title  because  his  wife  had  cast  him  adrift  for 
the  time  and  was  stopping  at  the  house  of  her  father, 
whose  death  was  hourly  expected. 

339 


THE    CONFLICT 


Old  Hastings  had  been  in  a  stupor  for  several  weeks. 
He  astonished  everybody,  except  Dr.  Charlton,  by  rous 
ing  on  election  night  and  asking  how  the  battle  had 
gone. 

"And  he  seemed  to  understand  what  I  told  him," 
said  Jane. 

"Certainly  he  understood,"  replied  Charlton.  "The 
only  part  of  him  that's  in  any  sort  of  condition  is  his 
mind,  because  it's  the  only  part  of  him  that's  been 
properly  exercised.  Most  people  die  at  the  top  first 
because  they've  never  in  all  their  lives  used  their  minds 
when  they  could  possibly  avoid  it." 

In  the  week  following  the  election  he  came  out  of  his 
stupor  again.  He  said  to  the  nurse: 

"It's  about  supper  time,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes,"  answered  she.  "They're  all  down  at  din — sup 
per.  Shall  I  call  them?" 

"No,"  said  he.     "I  want  to  go  down  to  her  room." 

"To  Miss  Jane's  room?"  asked  the  puzzled  nurse. 

"To  my  wife's  room,"  said  Hastings  crossly. 

The  nurse,  a  stranger,  thought  his  mind  was  wan 
dering.  "Certainly,"  said  she  soothingly.  "In  a  few 
minutes — as  soon  as  you've  rested  a  while." 

"You're  a  fool !"  mumbled  Hastings.    "Call  Jinny." 

The  nurse  obeyed.  When  he  repeated  his  request  to 
Jane,  she  hesitated.  The  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 
"I  know  what  I'm  about,"  he  pleaded.  "Send  for 
Charlton.  He'll  tell  you  to  let  me  have  my  way." 

Jane  decided  that  it  was  best  to  yield.  The  shrunken 
340 


THE    CONFLICT 


figure,  weighing  so  little  that  it  was  terrifying  to  lift  it, 
was  wrapped  warmly,  and  put  in  an  invalid  chair.  With 
much  difficulty  the  chair  was  got  out  into  the  hall  and 
down  the  stairs.  Then  they  wheeled  it  into  the  room 
where  he  was  in  the  habit  of  silting  after  supper.  When 
he  was  opposite  the  atrocious  crayon  enlargement  of 
his  wife  an  expression  of  supreme  content  settled  upon 
his  features.  Said  he: 

"Go  back  to  your  supper,  Jinny.  Take  the  nurse 
woman  with  you.  I  want  to  be  by  myself." 

The  nurse  glanced  stealthily  in  from  time  to  time  dur 
ing  the  next  hour.  She  saw  that  his  eyes  were  open,  were 
fixed  upon  the  picture.  When  Jane  came  she  ventured 
to  enter.  She  said: 

"Do  you  mind  my  sitting  with  you,  father?" 

He  did  not  answer.  She  went  to  him,  touched  him. 
He  was  dead. 

As  a  rule  death  is  not  without  mitigations,  consola 
tions  even.  Where  it  is  preceded  by  a  long  and  trou 
blesome  illness,  disrupting  the  routine  of  the  family  and 
keeping  everybody  from  doing  the  things  he  or  she 
wishes,  it  comes  as  a  relief.  In  this  particular  case  not 
only  was  the  death  a  relief,  but  also  the  estate  of  the 
dead  man  provided  all  the  chief  mourners  with  instant 
and  absorbing  occupation.  If  he  had  left  a  will,  the 
acrimony  of  the  heirs  would  have  been  caused  by  dis 
satisfaction  with  his  way  of  distributing  the  property. 
Leaving  no  will,  he  plunged  the  three  heirs — or,  rather, 
the  five  heirs,  for  the  husband  of  Martha  and  the  wife 

34,1 


THE    CONFLICT 


of  the  son  were  most  important  factors — he  plunged 
the  five  heirs  into  a  ferment  of  furious  dispute  as  to 
who  was  to  have  what.  Martha  and  her  husband  and 
the  daughter-in-law  were  people  of  exceedingly  small 
mind.  Trifles,  therefore,  agitated  them  to  the  exclusion 
of  larger  matters.  The  three  fell  to  quarreling  violently 
over  the  division  of  silverware,  jewelry  and  furniture. 
Jane  was  so  enraged  by  the  "disgusting  spectacle"  that 
she  proceeded  to  take  part  in  it  and  to  demand  every 
thing  which  she  thought  it  would  irritate  Martha  Gal- 
land  or  Irene  Hastings  to  have  to  give  up. 

The  three  women  and  Hugo — for  Hugo  loved  petty 
wrangling — spent  day  after  day  in  the  bitterest  quar 
rels.  Each  morning  Jane,  ashamed  overnight,  would 
issue  from  her  room  resolved  to  have  no  part  in  the 
vulgar  rowdyism.  Before  an  hour  had  passed  she  would 
be  the  angriest  of  the  disputants.  Except  her  own  un 
questioned  belongings  there  wasn't  a  thing  in  the  house 
or  stables  about  which  she  cared  in  the  least.  But  there 
was  a  principle  at  stake — and  for  principle  she  would 
fight  in  the  last  ditch. 

None  of  them  wished  to  call  in  arbitrators  or  execu 
tors;  why  go  to  that  expense?  So,  the  bickering  and 
wrangling,  the  insults  and  tears  and  sneers  went  on 
from  day  to  day.  At  last  they  settled  the  whole  matter 
by  lot — and  by  a  series  of  easily  arranged  exchanges 
where  the  results  of  the  drawings  were  unsatisfactory. 
Peace  was  restored,  but  not  liking.  Each  of  the  three 
groups — Hugo  and  Martha,  Will  and  Irene,  Jane  in  a 

342 


THE    CONFLICT 


group  by  herself — detested  the  other  two.  They  felt 
that  they  had  found  each  other  out.  As  Martha  said 
to  Hugo,  "It  takes  a  thing  of  this  kind  to  show  people 
up  in  their  true  colors."  Or,  as  Jane  said  to  Doctor 
Charlton,  "What  beasts  human  beings  are!" 

Said  he:  "What  beasts  circumstance  makes  of  some 
of  them  sometimes." 

"You  are  charitable,"  said  Jane. 

"I  am  scientific,"  replied  he.  "It's  very  intelligent 
to  go  about  distributing  praise  and  blame.  To  do  that 
is  to  obey  a  slightly  higher  development  of  the  instinct 
that  leads  one  to  scowl  at  and  curse  the  stone  he  stumps 
his  toe  on.  The  sensible  thing  to  do  is  to  look  at  the 
causes  of  things — of  brutishness  in  human  beings,  for 
example — and  to  remove  those  causes." 

"It  was  wonderful,  the  way  you  dragged  father  back 
to  life  and  almost  saved  him.  That  reminds  me.  Wait  a 
second,  please." 

She  went  up  to  her  room  and  got  the  envelope  ad 
dressed  to  Charlton  which  she  had  found  in  the  drawer, 
as  her  father  directed.  Charlton  opened  it,  took  out 
five  bank  notes  each  of  a  thousand  dollars.  She  glanced 
at  the  money,  then  at  his  face.  It  did  not  express  the 
emotion  she  was  expecting.  On  the  contrary,  its  look 
was  of  pleased  curiosity. 

"Five  thousand  dollars,"  he  said,  reflectively.  "Your 
father  certainly  was  a  queer  mixture  of  surprises  and 
contradictions.  Now,  who  would  have  suspected  him  of 
a  piece  of  sentiment  like  this?  Pure  sentiment.  He 

343 


THE    CONFLICT 


must  have  felt  that  I'd  not  be  able  to  save  him,  and  he 
knew  my  bill  wouldn't  be  one-tenth  this  sum." 

"He  liked  you,  and  admired  you,"  said  Jane. 
"He  was  very  generous  where  he  liked  and  ad 
mired." 

Charlton  put  the  money  back  in  the  envelope,  put 
the  envelope  in  his  pocket.  "I'll  give  the  money  to  the 
Children's  Hospital,"  said  he.  "About  six  months  ago  I 
completed  the  sum  I  had  fixed  on  as  necessary  to  my  in 
dependence;  so,  I've  no  further  use  for  money — except 
to  use  it  up  as  it  comes  in." 

"You  may  marry  some  day,"  suggested  Jane. 

"Not  a  woman  who  wishes  to  be  left  richer  than  in 
dependent,"  replied  he.  "As  for  the  children,  they'll 
be  brought  up  to  earn  their  own  independence.  I'll  leave 
only  incubators  and  keepsakes  when  I  die.  But  no  es 
tate.  I'm  not  that  foolish  and  inconsiderate." 

"What  a  queer  idea !"  exclaimed  Jane. 

"On  the  contrary,  it's  simplest  common  sense.  The 
idea  of  giving  people  something  they  haven't  earned — 
that's  the  queer  idea." 

"You  are  so  like  Victor  Dorn !" 

"That  reminds  me!"  exclaimed  Charlton.  "It  was 
very  negligent  of  me  to  forget.  The  day  your  father 
died  I  dropped  in  on  Victor  and  told  him — him  and 
Selma  Gordon — about  it.  And  both  asked  me  to  take 
you  their  sympathy.  They  said  a  great  deal  about 
your  love  for  your  father,  and  how  sad  it  was  to  lose 
him.  They  were  really  distressed." 

344 


THE   CONFLICT 


Jane's  face  almost  brightened.  "I've  been  rather  hurt 
because  I  hadn't  received  a  word  of  sympathy  from — 
them,"  she  said. 

"They'd  have  come*  themselves,  except  that  politics 
has  made  a  very  ugly  feeling  against  them — and  Gal- 
land's  your  brother-in-law." 

"I  understand,"  said  Jane.  "But  I'm  not  Galland— 
and  not  of  that  party." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are  of  that  party,"  replied  Charlton. 
"You  draw  your  income  from  it,  and  one  belongs  to 
whatever  he  draws  his  income  from.  Civilization  means 
property — as  yet.  And  it  doesn't  mean  men  and  women 
— as  yet.  So,  to  know  the  man  or  the  woman  we  look 
at  the  property." 

'That's  hideously  unjust,"  cried  Jane. 

"Don't  be  utterly  egotistical,"  said  Charlton.  "Don't 
attach  so  much  importance  to  your  little,  mortal,  weak 
personality.  Try  to  realize  that  you're  a  mere  chip 
in  the  great  game  of  chance.  You're  a  chip  with  the 
letter  P  on  it — which  stands  for  Plutocracy.  And  you'll 
be  played  as  you're  labeled." 

"You  make  it  very  hard  for  any  one  to  like  you." 

"Well— good-by,  then." 

And  ignoring  her  hasty,  half-laughing,  half-serious 
protests  he  took  himself  away.  She  was  intensely  irri 
tated.  A  rapid  change  in  her  outward  character  had 
been  going  forward  since  her  father's  death — a  change 
in  the  direction  of  intensifying  the  traits  that  had  al 
ways  been  really  dominant,  but  had  been  less  apparent 

345 


THE    CONFLICT 


because  softened  by  other  traits  now  rapidly  whither- 
ing. 

The  cause  of  the  change  was  her  inheritance. 

Martin  Hastings,  remaining  all  his  life  in  utter  ignor 
ance  of  the  showy  uses  of  wealth  and  looking  on  it  with 
the  eyes  of  a  farm  hand,  had  remained  the  enriched 
man  of  the  lower  classes,  at  heart  a  member  of  his  orig 
inal  class  to  the  end.  The  effect  of  this  upon  Jane 
had  been  to  keep  in  check  all  the  showy  and  arrogant, 
all  the  upper  class,  tendencies  which  education  and  travel 
among  the  upper  classes  of  the  East  and  of  Europe  had 
implanted  in  her.  So  long  as  plain  old  Martin  lived, 
she  could  not  feel  the  position  she  had — or,  rather, 
would  some  day  have — in  the  modern  social  system.  But 
just  as  soon  as  he  passed  away,  just  as  soon  as  she  be 
came  a  great  heiress,  actually  in  possession  of  that 
which  made  the  world  adore,  that  which  would  buy 
servility,  flattery,  awe — just  so  soon  did  she  begin  to 
be  an  upper-class  lady. 

She  had  acquired  a  superficial  knowledge  of  business 
— enough  to  enable  her  to  understand  what  the  various 
items  in  the  long,  long  schedule  of  her  holdings  meant. 
Symbols  of  her  importance,  of  her  power.  She  had 
studied  the  "great  ladies"  she  had  met  in  her  travels  and 
visitings.  She  had  been  impressed  by  the  charm  of 
the  artistic,  carefully  cultivated  air  of  simplicity  and 
equality  affected  by  the  greatest  of  these  great  ladies 
as  those  born  to  wealth  and  position.  To  be  gentle  and 
natural,  to  be  gracious — that  was  the  "proper  thing." 

346 


THE   CONFLICT 


So,  she  now  adopted  a  manner  that  was  if  anything  too 
kindly.  Her  pose,  her  mask,  behind  which  she  was  con 
cealing  her  swollen  and  still  swelling  pride  and  sense  of 
superiority,  as  yet  fitted  badly.  She  "overacted,"  as 
youth  is  apt  to  do.  She  would  have  given  a  shrewd  ob 
server — one  not  dazzled  by  her  wealth  beyond  the  power 
of  clear  sight — the  impression  that  she  was  pitying 
the  rest  of  mankind,  much  as  we  all  pity  and  forbear 
with  a  hopeless  cripple.  But  the  average  observer  would 
simply  have  said:  "What  a  sweet,  natural  girl,  so  un 
spoiled  by  her  wealth!" — just  as  the  hopeless  cripple 
says,  "What  a  polite  person,"  as  he  gets  the  benefit  of 
effusive  good  manners  that  would,  if  he  were  shrewd, 
painfully  remind  him  that  he  was  an  unfortunate  crea 
ture. 

Of  all  the  weeds  that  infest  the  human  garden  snob 
bishness,  the  commonest,  is  the  most  prolific,  and  it  is  a 
mighty  cross  breeder,  too — modifying  every  flower  in 
the  garden,  changing  colors  from  rich  to  glaring, 
changing  odors  from  perfumes  to  sickening-sweet  or  to 
stenches.  The  dead  hands  of  Martin  Hastings  scat 
tered  showers  of  shining  gold  upon  his  daughter's  gar 
den  ;  and  from  these  seeds  was  springing  a  heavy  crop 
of  that  most  prolific  of  weeds. 

She  was  beginning  to  resent  Charlton's  manner — 
bluff,  unceremonious,  candid,  at  times  rude.  He  treated 
women  exactly  as  he  treated  men,  and  he  treated  all  men 
as  intimates,  free  and  easy  fellow  travelers  afoot  upon 
a  dusty,  vulgar  highway.  She  had  found  charm  in  that 

347 


THE    CONFLICT 


manner,  so  natural  to  the  man  of  no  pretense,  of  splen 
did  physical  proportions,  of  the  health  of  a  fine  tree. 
She  was  beginning  to  get  into  the  state  of  mind  at  which 
practically  all  very  rich  people  in  a  civilized  society 
sooner  or  later  arrive — a  state  of  mind  that  makes  it 
impossible  for  any  to  live  with  or  near  them  except 
hirelings  and  dependents.  The  habit  of  power  of  any 
kind  breeds  intolerance  of  equality  of  level  intercourse. 
This  is  held  in  check,  often  held  entirely  in  check,  where 
the  power  is  based  upon  mental  superiority;  for  the 
very  superiority  of  the  mind  keeps  alive  the  sense  of 
humor  and  the  sense  of  proportion.  Not  so  the  habit 
of  money  power.  For  money  power  is  brutal,  mindless. 
And  as  it  is  the  only  real  power  in  any  and  all  aris 
tocracies,  aristocracies  are  inevitably  brutal  and  bru 
talizing. 

If  Jane  had  been  poor,  or  had  remained  a  few  years 
longer — until  her  character  was  better  set — under  the 
restraining  influence  of  her  unfrilled  and  unfrillable 
father,  her  passion  for  power,  for  superiority  would 
probably  have  impelled  her  to  develop  her  mind  into  a 
source  of  power  and  position.  Fate  abruptly  gave  her 
the  speediest  and  easiest  means  to  power  known  in  our 
plutocratic  civilization.  She  would  have  had  to  be  su 
perhuman  in  beauty  of  character  or  a  genius  in  mind  to 
have  rejected  the  short  and  easy  way  to  her  goal  and 
struggled  on  in  the  long  and  hard — and  doubtful — way. 

She  did  not  herself  appreciate  the  change  within  her 
self.  She  fancied  she  was  still  what  she  had  been  two 

348 


THE    CONFLICT 


weeks  before.  For  as  yet  nothing  had  occurred  to  en 
able  her  to  realize  her  changed  direction,  her  changed 
view  of  life.  Thus,  she  was  still  thinking  of  Victor  Dorn 
as  she  had  thought  of  him;  and  she  was  impatient  to 
see  him.  She  was  now  free — free!  She  could,  without 
consulting  anybody,  have  what  she  wanted.  And  she 
wanted  Victor  Dorn. 

She  had  dropped  from  her  horse  and  with  her  arm 
through  the  bridle  was  strolling  along  one  of  the  quieter 
roads  which  Victor  often  took  in  his  rambles.  It  was 
a  tonic  October  day,  with  floods  of  sunshine  upon  the 
gorgeous  autumnal  foliage,  never  more  gorgeous  than 
in  that  fall  of  the  happiest  alternations  of  frost  and 
warmth.  She  heard  the  pleasant  rustle  of  quick  steps  in 
the  fallen  leaves  that  carpeted  the  byroad.  She  knew  it 
was  he  before  she  glanced ;  and  his  first  view  of  her  face 
was  of  its  beauty  enhanced  by  a  color  as  delicate  and 
charming  as  that  in  the  leaves  about  them. 

She  looked  at  his  hands  in  which  he  was  holding  some 
thing  half  concealed.  "What  is  it?"  she  said,  to  cover 
her  agitation. 

He  opened  his  hands  a  little  wider.  "A  bird,"  said 
he.  "Some  hunter  has  broken  its  wing.  I'm  taking  it 
to  Charlton  for  repairs  and  a  fair  start  for  its  winter 
down  South." 

His  eyes  noted  for  an  instant  significantly  her  sombre 

riding  costume,  then  sought  her  eyes  with  an  expression 

of  simple  and  friendly  sympathy.     The  tears  came  to 

her  eyes,  and  she  turned  her  face  away.     She  for  the 

23  349 


THE   CONFLICT 


first  time  had  a  sense  of  loss,  a  moving  memory  of  her 
father's  goodness  to  her,  of  an  element  of  tenderness 
that  had  passed  out  of  her  life  forever.  And  she  felt 
abjectly  ashamed — ashamed  of  her  relief  at  the  lifting 
of  the  burden  of  his  long  struggle  against  death, 
ashamed  of  her  miserable  wranglings  with  Martha  and 
Billy's  wife,  ashamed  of  her  forgetfulness  of  her  fathei 
in  the  exultation  over  her  wealth,  ashamed  of  the  elab 
orately  fashionable  mourning  she  was  wearing — and  of 
the  black  horse  she  had  bought  to  match.  She  hoped  he 
would  not  observe  these  last  flauntings  of  the  purely 
formal  character  of  a  grief  that  was  being  utilized  to 
make  a  display  of  fashionableness. 

"You  always  bring  out  the  best  there  is  in  me,"  said 
she. 

He  stood  silently  before  her — not  in  embarrassment, 
for  he  was  rarely  self-conscious  enough  to  be  embar 
rassed,  but  refraining  from  speech  simply  because 
there  was  nothing  to  say. 

"I  haven't  heard  any  of  the  details  of  the  elec 
tion,"  she  went  on.  "Did  you  come  out  as  well  as  you 
hoped?" 

"Better,"  said  he.  "As  a  result  of  the  election  the 
membership  of  the  League  has  already  a  little  more  than 
doubled.  We  could  have  quadrupled  it,  but  we  are 
somewhat  strict  in  our  requirements.  We  want  only 
those  who  will  stay  members  as  long  as  they  stay  citi 
zens  of  Remsen  City.  But  I  must  go  on  to  Charlton  or 
he'll  be  out  on  his  rounds." 

350 


THE   CONFLICT 


She  caught  his  glance,  which  was  inclined  to  avoid 
hers.  She  gave  him  a  pleading  look.  "I'll  walk  with 
you  part  of  the  way,"  she  said. 

He  seemed  to  be  searching  for  an  excuse  to  get  away. 
Whether  because  he  failed  to  find  it  or  because  he 
changed  his  mind,  he  said :  "You'll  not  mind  going  at  a 
good  gait?" 

"I'll  ride,"  said  she.  "It's  not  comfortable,  walking 
fast  in  these  boots." 

He  stood  by  to  help  her,  but  let  her  get  into  the 
saddle  alone.  She  smiled  down  at  him  with  a  little  co 
quetry.  "Are  you  afraid  to  touch  me — to-day?"  she 
asked. 

He  laughed :  "The  bird  is  merely  an  excuse,"  he  ad 
mitted.  "I've  got  back  my  self-control,  and  I  purpose 
to  keep  it." 

She  flushed  angrily.  His  frankness  now  seemed  to 
her  to  be  flavored  with  impertinent  assurance.  "That's 
amusing,"  said  she,  with  an  unpleasant  smile.  "You 
have  an  extraordinary  opinion  of  yourself,  haven't 
you?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  if  the  subject  did  not 
interest  him  and  set  off  at  a  gait  that  compelled  her 
horse  to  a  rapid  walk.  She  said  presently: 

"I'm  going  to  live  at  the  old  place  alone  for  the  pres 
ent.  You'll  come  to  see  me?" 

He  looked  at  her.  "No,"  he  said.  "As  I  told  you  a 
moment  ago,  that's  over.  You'll  have  to  find  some  one 
else  to  amuse  you — for,  I  understand  perfectly,  Jane, 

351 


THE   CONFLICT 


that  you  were  only  doing  what's  called  flirting.  That 
sort  of  thing  is  a  waste  of  time — for  me.  I'm  not  com 
petent  to  judge  whether  it's  a  waste  for  you." 

She  looked  coldly  down  at  him.  "You  have  changed 
since  I  last  saw  you,"  she  said.  "I  don't  mean  the 
change  in  your  manner  toward  me.  I  mean  something 
deeper.  I've  often  heard  that  politics  makes  a  man  de 
teriorate.  You  must  be  careful,  Victor." 

"I  must  think  about  that,"  said  he.  "Thank  you  for 
warning  me." 

His  prompt  acceptance  of  her  insincere  criticism  made 
her  straightway  repentant.  "No,  it's  I  that  have 
changed,"  she  said.  "Oh,  I'm  horrid! — simply  horrid. 
I'm  in  despair  about  myself." 

"Any  one  who  thinks  about  himself  is  bound  to  be," 
said  he  philosophically.  "That's  why  one  has  to  keep 
busy  in  order  to  keep  contented."  He  halted.  "I  can 
save  a  mile  and  half  an  hour  by  crossing  these  fields." 
He  held  the  wounded  bird  in  one  hand  very  carefully 
while  he  lifted  his  hat. 

She  colored  deeply.  "Victor,"  she  said,  "isn't  there 
any  way  that  you  and  I  can  be  friends  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  he.  "As  I  told  you  before,  by  becom 
ing  one  of  us.  Those  are  impossible  terms,  of  course. 
But  that's  the  only  way  by  which  we  could  be  of  use 
to  each  other.  Jane,  if  I,  professing  what  I  do  profess, 
offered  to  be  friends  with  you  on  any  other  terms,  you'd 
be  very  foolish  not  to  reject  my  offer.  For,  it  would 
mean  that  I  was  a  fraud.  Don't  you  see  that?" 

352 


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"Yes,"  she  admitted.  "But  when  I  am  with  you  I 
see  everything  exactly  as  you  represent  it." 

"It's  fortunate  for  you  that  I'm  not  disposed  to  take 
advantage  of  that — isn't  it?"  said  he,  with  good-hum 
ored  irony. 

"You  don't  believe  me!" 

"Not  altogether,"  he  confessed.  "To  be  quite  candid, 
I  think  that  for  some  reason  or  other  I  rouse  in  you  an 
irresistible  desire  to  pose.  I  doubt  if  you  realize  it — 
wholly.  But  you'd  be  hard  pressed  just  where  to  draw 
the  line  between  the  sincere  and  the  insincere,  wouldn't 
you — honestly  ?" 

She  sat  moodily  combing  at  her  horse's  mane. 

"I  know  it's  cruel,"  he  went  on  lightly,  "to  deny 
anything,  however  small,  to  a  young  lady  who  has  al 
ways  had  her  own  way.  But  in  self-defense  I  must  do 
it." 

"Why  do  I  take  these  things  from  you?"  she  cried,  in 
sudden  exasperation.  And  touching  her  horse  with  her 
stick,  she  was  off  at  a  gallop. 


IX 


From  anger  against  Victor  Dorn,  Jane  passed  to  anger 
against  herself.  This  was  soon  followed  by  a  mood  of 
self-denunciation,  by  astonishment  at  the  follies  of 
which  she  had  been  guilty,  by  shame  for  them.  She 
could  not  scoff  or  scorn  herself  out  of  the  infatuation. 
But  at  least  she  could  control  herself  against  yielding  to 
it.  Recalling  and  reviewing  all  he  had  said,  she — that 
is,  her  vanity — decided  that  the  most  important  remark, 
the  only  really  important  remark,  was  his  declaration  of 
disbelief  in  her  sincerity.  "The  reason  he  has  repulsed 
me — and  a  very  good  reason  it  is — is  that  he  thinks  I 
am  simply  amusing  myself.  If  he  thought  I  was  in 
earnest,  he  would  act  very  differently.  Very  shrewd 
of  him!" 

Did  she  believe  this?  Certainly  not.  But  she  con 
vinced  herself  that  she  believed  it,  and  so  saved  her 
pride.  From  this  point  she  proceeded  by  easy  stages  to 
doubting  whether,  if  Victor  had  taken  her  at  her  word, 
she  would  have  married  him.  And  soon  she  had  con 
vinced  herself  that  she  had  gone  so  far  only  through 
her  passion  for  conquest,  that  at  the  first  sign  of  his 
yielding  her  good  sense  would  have  asserted  itself  and 
she  could  have  retreated. 

"He  knew  me  better  than  I  knew  myself,"  said  she — 
354 


THE   CONFLICT 


not  so  thoroughly  convinced  as  her  pride  would  have 
liked,  but  far  better  content  with  herself  than  in  those 
unhappy  hours  of  humiliation  after  her  last  talk  with 
him. 

From  the  beginning  of  her  infatuation  there  had  been 
only  a  few  days,  hardly  more  than  a  few  hours,  when 
the  voice  of  prudence  and  good  sense  had  been  silenced. 
Yes,  he  was  right ;  they  were  not  suited  to  each  other, 
and  a  marriage  between  them  would  have  been  absurd. 
He  did  belong  to  a  different,  to  a  lower  class,  and  he 
could  never  have  understood  her.  Refinement,  taste,  the 
things  of  the  life  of  luxury  and  leisure  were  incom 
prehensible  to  him.  It  might  be  unjust  that  the  many 
had  to  toil  in  squalor  and  sordidness  while  the  few 
were  privileged  to  cultivate  and  to  enjoy  the  graces  and 
the  beauties;  but,  unjust  or  in  some  mysterious  way 
just,  there  was  the  fact.  Her  life  was  marked  out  for 
her;  she  was  of  the  elect.  She  would  do  well  to  accept 
her  good  fortune  and  live  as  the  gods  had  ordained  for 
her. 

If  Victor  had  been  different  in  that  one  respect! 
The  infatuation,  too,  was  a  fact.  The  wise 
course  was  flight — and  she  fled. 

That  winter,  in  Chicago  and  in  New  York,  Jane 
amused  herself — in  the  ways  devised  by  latter  day  im 
patience  with  the  folly  of  wasting  a  precious  part  of 
the  one  brief  life  in  useless  grief  or  pretense  of  grief. 
In  Remsen  City  she  would  have  had  to  be  very  quiet  in 
deed,  under  penalty  of  horrifying  public  sentiment.  But 

355 


THE   CONFLICT 


Chicago  and  New  York  knew  nothing  of  her  grief, 
cared  nothing  about  grief  of  any  kind.  People  in 
deep  mourning  were  found  in  the  theaters,  in  the  gay 
restaurants,  wherever  any  enjoyment  was  to  be  had;  and 
very  sensible  it  was  of  them,  and  proof  of  the  sincerity 
of  their  sorrow — for  sincere  sorrow  seeks  consolation 
lest  it  go  mad  and  commit  suicide — does  it  not? 

Jane,  young,  beautiful,  rich,  clever,  had  a  very  good 
time  indeed — so  good  that  in  the  spring,  instead  of 
going  back  to  Remsen  City  to  rest,  she  went  abroad. 
More  enjoyment — or,  at  least,  more  of  the  things  that 
fill  in  the  time  and  spare  one  the  necessity  of  think 
ing. 

In  August  she  suddenly  left  her  friends  at  St.  Moritz 
and  journeyed  back  to  Remsen  City  as  fast  as  train  and 
boat  and  train  could  take  her.  And  on  the  front  ve 
randa  of  the  old  house  she  sat  herself  down  and  looked 
out  over  the  familiar  landscape  and  listened  to  the  katy 
dids  lulling  the  woods  and  the  fields,  and  was  bored  and 
wondered  why  she  had  come. 

In  a  reckless  mood  she  went  down  to  see  Victor  Dorn. 
"I  am  cured,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I  must  be  cured.  I 
simply  can't  be  small  and  silly  enough  to  care  for  a 
country  town  labor  agitator  after  all  I've  been  through 
— after  the  attentions  I've  had  and  the  men  of  the 
world  I've  met.  I'm  cured,  and  I  must  prove  it  to 
myself." 

In  the  side  yard  Alice  Sherrill  and  her  children  and 
several  neighbor  girls  were  putting  up  pears  and 

356 


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peaches,  blackberries  and  plums.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  delicious  odors  of  ripe  and  perfect  fruit,  and  the 
laughter,  the  bright  healthy  faces,  the  strong  graceful 
bodies  in  all  manner  of  poses  at  the  work  required  made 
a  scene  that  brought  tears  to  Jane's  eyes.  Why  tears 
she  could  not  have  explained,  but  there  they  were.  At 
far  end  of  the  arbor,  looking  exactly  as  he  had  in  the 
same  place  the  year  before,  sat  Victor  Dorn,  writing. 
He  glanced  up,  saw  her!  Into  his  face  came  a  look 
of  welcome  that  warmed  her  chilled  heart. 

"Hel-fo/"  he  cried,  starting  up.  "I  am  glad  to  see 
you." 

"I'm  mighty  glad  to  be  back,"  said  she,  lapsing  with 
keen  pleasure  into  her  native  dialect. 

He  took  both  her  hands  and  shook  them  cordially, 
then  looked  at  her  from  head  to  foot  admiringly.  "The 
latest  from  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  I  suppose?"  said  he. 

They  seated  themselves  with  the  table  between  them. 
She,  under  cover  of  commonplaces  about  her  travels,  ex 
amined  him  with  the  utmost  calmness.  She  saw  every 
point  wherein  he  fell  short  of  the  men  of  her  class — 
the  sort  of  men  she  ought  to  like  and  admire.  But,  oh, 
how  dull  and  stale  and  narrow  and  petty  they  were,  be 
side  this  man.  She  knew  now  why  she  had  fled.  She 
didn't  want  to  love  Victor  Dorn,  or  to  marry  him — or 
his  sort  of  man.  But  he,  his  intense  aliveness,  his  keen, 
supple  mind,  had  spoiled  her  for  those  others.  One  of 
them  she  could  not  marry.  "I  should  go  mad  with  bore 
dom.  One  can  no  more  live  intimately  with  fashion  than 


THE   CONFLICT 


one  can  eat  gold  and  drink  diamonds.  And,  oh,  but  I 
am  hungry  and  thirsty !" 

"So  you've  had  a  good  time?"  he  was  saying. 

Superb,"  replied  she.  "Such  scenery — such  va 
riety  of  people.  I  love  Europe.  But — I'm  glad  to  be 
home  again." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  stand  it,"  said  Victor. 

"Why?"  inquired  she  in  surprise. 

"Unless  I  had  an  intense  personal  interest  in  the  most 
active  kind  of  life  in  a  place  like  this,  I  should  either 
fly  or  take  to  drink,"  replied  he.  "In  this  world  you've 
either  got  to  invent  occupation  for  yourself  or  else  keep 
where  amusements  and  distractions  are  thrust  at  you 
from  rising  till  bed-time.  And  no  amusements  are  thrust 
at  you  in  Remsen  City." 

"But  I've  been  trying  the  life  of  being  amused," 
said  Jane,  "and  I've  got  enough." 

"For  the  moment,"  said  Victor,  laughing.  "You'll 
go  back.  You've  got  to.  What  else  is  there  for  you?" 

Her  eyes  abruptly  became  serious.  "That's  what  I've 
come  home  to  find  out,"  said  she.  Hesitatingly,  "That's 
why  I've  come  here  to-day." 

He  became  curiously  quiet — stared  at  the  writing  be 
fore  him  on  the  table.  After  a  while  he  said : 

"Jane,  I  was  entirely  too  glad  to  see  you  to-day.  I 
had " 

"Don't  say  that,"  she  pleaded.  "Victor,  it  isn't  a 
weakness " 

His  hand  resting  upon  the  table  clenched  into  a  fist 
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and  his  brows  drew  down.  "There  can  be  no  question 
but  that  it  is  a  weakness  and  a  folly,"  he  pushed  on. 
"I  will  not  spoil  your  life  and  mine.  You  are  not  for 
me,  and  I  am  not  for  you.  The  reason  we  hang  on  to 
this  is  because  each  of  us  has  a  streak  of  tenacity.  We 
don't  want  each  other,  but  we  are  so  made  that  we  can't 
let  go  of  an  idea  once  it  has  gotten  into  our  heads." 

"There  is  another  reason,"  she  said  gently.  "We 
are,  both  of  us,  alone — and  lonesome,  Victor." 

"But  I'm  not  alone.  I'm  not  lonesome "  And 

there  he  abruptly  halted,  to  gaze  at  her  with  the  ex 
pression  of  awakening  and  astonishment.  "I  believe  I'm 
wrong.  I  believe  you're  right,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  had 
never  thought  of  that  before." 

"You've  been  imagining  your  work,  your  cause  was 
enough,"  she  went  on  in  a  quiet  rational  way  that  was 
a  revelation — and  a  self-revelation — of  the  real  Jane 
Hastings.  "But  it  isn't.  There's  a  whole  other  side  of 
your  nature — the — the — the  private  side — that's  the  ex 
pression — the  private  side.  And  you've  been  denying  to 
it  its  rights." 

He  reflected,  nodded  slowly.  "I  believe  that's  the 
truth,"  he  said.  "It  explains  a  curious  feeling  I've  had 
— a  sort  of  shriveling  sensation."  He  gazed  thought 
fully  at  her,  his  face  gradually  relaxing  into  a  merry 
smile. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  she,  smiling  in  turn. 

"We've  both  got  to  fall  in  love  and  marry,"  said  he. 
"Not  with  each  other,  of  course — for  we're  not  in  any 


THE   CONFLICT 


way  mated.  But  love  and  marriage  and  the  rest  of  it — 
that's  the  solution.  I  don't  need  it  quite  as  much  as 
you  do,  for  Fve  got  my  work.  But  I  need  it.  Now 
that  I  see  things  in  the  right  light  I  wonder  that  I've 
been  so  stupidly  blind.  Why  do  we  human  beings  al 
ways  overlook  the  obvious?" 

"It  isn't  easy  to  marry,"  said  Jane,  rather  drearily. 
"It  isn't  easy  to  find  some  one  with  whom  one  would  be 
willing  to  pass  one's  life.  I've  had  several  chances — 
one  or  two  of  them  not  entirely  mercenary,  I  think.  But 
not  one  that  I  could  bring  myself  to  accept." 

"Vanity — vanity,"  said  Victor.  "Almost  any  human 
being  is  interesting  and  attractive  if  one  will  stop  think 
ing  about  oneself  and  concentrate  on  him  or  her." 

She  smiled.  "It's  evident  you've  never  tried  to  fall  in 
love." 

"The  nearest  I  ever  came  to  it  was  with  you,"  replied 
he.  "But  that  was,  of  course,  out  of  the  question." 

"I  don't  admit  that,"  said  she,  with  an  amusing  kind 
of  timid  obstinacy. 

"Let's  be  honest  and  natural  with  each  other,"  urged 
he.  "Now,  Jane,  admit  that  in  your  heart  of  hearts 
you  feel  you  ought  not  to  marry  me." 

Her  glance  avoided  his. 

"Come — own  up !"  cried  he. 

"I  have  thought  of  that  side  of  it,"  she  conceded. 

"And  if  I  hadn't  piqued  you  by  thinking  of  it,  too, 
you'd  never  have  lingered  on  any  other  side  of  it,"  said 
he.  "Well!  Now  that  we've  cleared  the  ground — 

360 


THE   CONFLICT 


there's  Davy.  He's  to  be  nominated  by  the  Republicans 
for  Governor  next  week." 

"Davy?  I  had  almost  forgotten  him.  I'll  think  of 
Davy — and  let  you  know  .  .  .  And  you?  Who  is 
there  for  you?" 

"Oh — no  one  you  know.  My  sister  has  recommended 
several  girls  from  time  to  time.  I'll  see." 

Jane  gave  the  freest  and  heartiest  laugh  that  had 
passed  her  lips  in  more  than  a  year.  It  was  thus  free 
and  unrestrained  because  he  had  not  said  what  she  was 
fearing  he  would  say — had  not  suggested  the  woman 
nearest  him,  the  obvious  woman.  So  eager  was  she  to 
discover  what  he  thought  of  Selma,  that  she  could  hardly 
restrain  herself  from  suggesting  her.  Before  they  could 
say  anything  more,  two  men  came  to  talk  with  him. 
Jane  could  not  but  leave. 

She  dined  that  night  at  Mrs.  Sherlock's — Mrs.  Sher 
lock  was  Davy's  oldest  sister.  Davy  took  her  in,  they 
talked — about  his  career — through  dinner,  and  he 
walked  home  with  her  in  the  moonlight.  He  was  full  of 
his  approaching  nomination.  He  had  been  making 
what  is  known  as  a  good  record,  as  mayor.  That  is,  he 
had  struck  out  boldly  at  sundry  petty  abuses  practised 
by  a  low  and  comparatively  uninfluential  class  of  ex 
ploiters  of  the  people.  He  had  been  so  busy  with  these 
showy  trifles  that  there  had  been  no  time  for  the  large 
abuses.  True,  he  had  publicly  warned  the  gas  company 
about  its  poor  gas,  and  the  water  company  about  its 
unwholesome  water  for  the  low-lying  tenement  districts, 

361 


THE    CONFLICT 


and  the  traction  company  about  the  fewness  and  filthi- 
ness  of  its  cars.  The  gas  company  had  talked  of  put 
ting  in  improved  machinery ;  the  water  company  had  in 
vited  estimates  on  a  filtration  plant;  the  traction  com 
pany  had  said  a  vague  something  about  new  cars  as  soon 
as  car  manufacturers  could  make  definite  promises  as  to 
delivery.  But  nothing  had  been  done — as  yet.  Ob 
viously  a  corporation,  a  large  investment  of  capital, 
must  be  treated  with  consideration.  It  would  not  do  for 
a  conservative,  fair  minded  mayor  to  rush  into  dema- 
gogery.  So,  Davy  was  content  to  point  proudly  to 
his  record  of  having  "made  the  big  corporations  awaken 
to  a  sense  of  their  duty."  An  excellent  record,  as  good 
as  a  reform  politician,  with  a  larger  career  in  prospect, 
could  be  expected  to  make.  People  spoke  well  of  Mayor 
Hull  and  the  three  daily  papers  eulogized  him.  Davy  no 
longer  had  qualms  of  conscience.  He  read  the  eulogies, 
he  listened  to  the  flatteries  of  the  conservative  leading 
citizens  he  met  at  the  Lincoln  and  at  the  University,  and 
he  felt  that  he  was  all  that  he  in  young  enthusiasm 
had  set  out  to  be. 

When  he  went  to  other  cities  and  towns  and  to  county 
fairs  to  make  addresses  he  was  introduced  as  the  man 
who  had  redeemed  Remsen  City,  as  a  shining  example 
of  the  honest  sane  man  in  politics,  as  a  man  the  bosses 
were  afraid  of,  yet  dared  not  try  to  down.  "You  can't 
fool  the  people."  And  were  not  the  people,  notably 
those  who  didn't  live  in  Remsen  City  and  had  only  read 
in  their  newspapers  about  the  reform  Republican  mayor 

362 


THE   CONFLICT 


—weren't  they  clamorous  for  Mayor  Hull  for  governor ! 

Thus,  Davy  was  high  in  his  own  esteem,  was  in  that 
mood  of  profound  responsibility  to  righteousness  and 
to  the  people  wherein  a  man  can  get  the  enthusiastic 
endorsement  of  his  conscience  for  any  act  he  deems  it 
expedient  to  commit  in  safeguarding  and  advancing  his 
career.  His  person  had  become  valuable  to  his  country. 
His  opponents  were  therefore  anathema  maranatha. 

As  he  and  Jane  walked  side  by  side  in  the  tender 
moonlight,  Jane  said: 

"What's  become  of  Selma  Gordon?" 

A  painful  pause ;  then  Davy,  in  a  tone  that  secretly 
amused  Jane:  "Selma?  I  see  her  occasionally — at  a 
distance.  She  still  writes  for  Victor  Dorn's  sheet,  I  be 
lieve.  I  never  see  it." 

Jane  felt  she  could  easily  guess  why.  "Yes — it  is  ir 
ritating  to  read  criticisms  of  oneself,"  said  she  sweetly. 
Davy's  self-complacence  had  been  most  trying  to  her 
nerves. 

Another  long  silence,  then  he  said:  "About — Miss 
Gordon.  I  suppose  you  were  thinking  of  the  things  I 
confided  to  you  last  year?" 

"Yes,  I  was,"  confessed  Jane. 

"That's  all  over,"  said  Mayor  and  prospective  Gov 
ernor  Hull.  "I  found  I  was  mistaken  in  her." 

"Didn't  you  tell  me  that  she  refused  you?"  pressed 
Jane,  most  unkindly. 

"We  met  again  after  that,"  said  Davy — by  way  of 
proving  that  even  the  most  devoted  apostle  of  civic 

3G3 


THE   CONFLICT 


righteousness  is  yet  not  without  his  share  of  the  com 
mon  humanity,  "and  from  that  time  I  felt  differently 
toward  her.  .  .  .  I've  never  been  able  to  understand 
my  folly.  ...  I  wonder  if  you  could  forgive  me 
for  it?" 

Davy  was  a  good  deal  of  a  bore,  she  felt.  At  least, 
he  seemed  so  in  this  first  renewing  of  old  acquaintance. 
But  he  was  a  man  of  purpose,  a  man  who  was  doing 
much  and  would  do  more.  And  she  liked  him,  and  had 
for  him  that  feeling  of  sympathy  and  comprehension 
which  exists  among  people  of  the  same  region,  brought 
up  in  much  the  same  way.  Instead  of  cutting  him  off, 
she  temporized.  Said  she  with  a  serenely  careless  laugh 
that  might  have  let  a  man  more  expert  in  the  ways,  of 
women  into  the  secret  of  how  little  she  cared  about  him : 
"You  mean  forgive  you  for  dropping  me  so  abruptly 
and  running  after  her?" 

"That's  not  exactly  the  way  to  put  it,"  objected  he. 

"Put  it  any  way  you  like,"  said  Jane.  "I  forgive 
you.  I  didn't  care  at  the  time,  and  I  don't  care  now." 

Jane  was  looking  entrancing  in  that  delicate  light. 
Davy  was  noting — was  feeling — this.  Also,  he  was  re 
flecting — in  a  high-minded  way — upon  the  many  ma 
terial,  mental  and  spiritual  advantages  of  a  marriage 
with  her.  Just  the  woman  to  be  a  governor's  wife — 
a  senator's  wife — a  president's  wife.  Said  he: 

"Jane,  my  feeling  for  you  has  never  changed." 

"Really?"  said  Jane.  "Why,  I  thought  you  told 
me  at  one  time  that  you  were  in  love  with  me?" 

364 


THE   CONFLICT 


"And  I  always  have  been,  dear — and  am,"  said 
Davy,  in  his  deepest,  tenderest  tones.  "And  now  that 
I  am  winning  a  position  worthy  of  you " 

"I'll  see,"  cut  in  Jane.  "Let's  not  talk  about  it  to 
night."  She  felt  that  if  he  kept  on  she  might  yield 
to  the  temptation  to  say  something  mocking,  some 
thing  she  would  regret  if  it  drove  him  away  finally. 

He  was  content.  The  ice  had  been  broken.  The 
Selma  Gordon  business  had  been  disposed  of.  The 
way  was  clear  for  straight-away  love-making  the  next 
time  they  met.  Meanwhile  he  would  think  about  her, 
would  get  steam  up,  would  have  his  heart  blazing  and 
his  words  and  phrases  all  in  readiness. 

Every  human  being  has  his  or  her  fundamental 
vanity  that  must  be  kept  alive,  if  life  is  to  be  or  to 
seem  to  be  worth  living.  In  man  this  vanity  is  usually 
some  form  of  belief  in  his  mental  ability,  in  woman 
some  form  of  belief  in  her  physical  charm.  For 
tunately — or,  rather,  necessarily — not  much  is  re 
quired  to  keep  this  vanity  alive — or  to  restore  it  after 
a  shock,  however  severe.  Victor  Dorn  had  been  com 
pelled  to  give  Jane  Hastings'  vanity  no  slight  shock. 
But  it  recovered  at  once.  Jane  saw  that  his  failure  to 
yield  was  due  not  to  lack  of  potency  in  her  charms,  but 
to  extraordinary  strength  of  purpose  in  his  character. 
Thus,  not  only  was  she  able  to  save  herself  from  any 
sense  of  humiliation,  but  also  she  was  without  any 
feeling  of  resentment  against  him.  She  liked  him  and 
9*  365 


THE    CONFLICT 


admired  him  more  than  ever.  She  saw  his  point  of 
view;  she  admitted  that  he  was  right — if  it  were 
granted  that  a  life  such  as  he  had  mapped  for  himself 
was  better  for  him  than  the  career  he  could  have  made 
with  her  help. 

Her  heart,  however,  was  hastily,  even  rudely  thrust 
to  the  background  when  she  discovered  that  her  brother 
had  been  gambling  in  wheat  with  practically  her  en 
tire  fortune.  With  an  adroitness  that  irritated  her 
against  herself,  as  she  looked  back,  he  had  continued 
to  induce  her  to  disregard  their  father's  cautionings  and 
to  ask  him  to  take  full  charge  of  her  affairs.  He  had 
not  lost  her  fortune,  but  he  had  almost  lost  it.  But 
for  an  accidental  stroke,  a  week  of  weather  destructive 
to  crops  all  over  the  country,  she  would  have  been  re 
duced  to  an  income  of  not  more  than  ten  or  fifteen 
thousand  a  year — twenty  times  the  income  of  the  aver 
age  American  family  of  five,  but  for  Miss  Hastings 
straitened  subsistence  and  a  miserable  state  of  shorn- 
ness  of  all  the  radiance  of  life.  And,  pushing  her  in 
quiries  a  little  farther,  she  learned  that  her  brother 
would  still  have  been  rich,  because  he  had  taken 
care  to  settle  a  large  sum  on  his  wife — in  such  a 
way  that  if  she  divorced  him  it  would  pass  back 
to  him. 

In  the  course  of  her  arrangings  to  meet  this  situation 
and  to  prevent  its  recurrence  she  saw  much  of  Doctor 
Charlton.  He  gave  her  excellent  advice  and  found 
for  her  a  man  to  take  charge  of  her  affairs  so  far  as 

366 


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it  was  wise  for  her  to  trust  any  one.  The  man  was 
a  bank  cashier,  Robert  Headley  by  name — one  of  those 
rare  beings  who  care  nothing  for  riches  for  themselves 
and  cannot  invest  their  own  money  wisely,  but  have  a 
genius  for  fidelity  and  wise  counsel. 

"It's  a  pity  he's  married,"  said  Charlton.  "If  he 
weren't  I'd  urge  you  to  take  him  as  a  husband." 

Jane  laughed.  A  plainer,  duller  man  than  Headley 
it  would  have  been  hard  to  find,  even  among  the  re 
spectabilities  of  Remsen  City. 

"Why  do  you  laugh?"  said  Charlton.  "What  is 
there  absurd  in  a  sensible  marriage?" 

"Would  you  marry  a  woman  because  she  was  a 
good  housekeeper?" 

"That  would  be  one  of  the  requirements,"  said  Charl 
ton.  "I've  sense  enough  to  know  that,  no  matter  how 
much  I  liked  a  woman  before  marriage,  it  couldn't  last 
long  if  she  were  incompetent.  She'd  irritate  me  every 
moment  in  the  day.  I'd  lie  awake  of  nights  despising 
her.  And  how  she  would  hate  me !" 

"I  can't  imagine  you  a  husband,"  laughed  Jane. 

"That  doesn't  speak  well  for  your  imagination,"  re 
joined  Charlton.  "I  have  perfect  health — which  means 
that  I  have  a  perfect  disposition,  for  only  people  with 
deranged  interiors  are  sour  and  snappy  and  moody. 
And  I  am  sympathetic  and  understanding.  I  appre 
ciate  that  women  are  rottenly  brought  up  and  have 
everything  to  learn — everything  that's  worth  while  if 
one  is  to  live  comfortably  and  growingly.  So,  I 

367 


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shouldn't  expect  much  at  the  outset  beyond  a  desire  to 
improve  and  a  capacity  to  improve.  Yes,  I've  about 
all  the  virtues  for  a  model  husband — a  companionable, 
helpful  mate  for  a  woman  who  wants  to  be  more  of  a 
person  every  day  she  lives." 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Jane,  mockingly.  "The  adver 
tisement  reads  well,  but  I  don't  care  to  invest." 

"Oh,  I  looked  you  over  long  ago,"  said  Charlton 
with  a  coolness  that  both  amused  and  exasperated  her. 
"You  wouldn't  do  at  all.  You  are  very  attractive  to 
look  at  and  to  talk  with.  Your  money  would  be  useful 
to  some  plans  I've  got  for  some  big  sanatoriums  along 

the  line  of  Schulze's  up  at  Saint  Christopher.  But " 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling  at  her  through  a  cloud  of 
cigarette  smoke. 

"Go  on,"  urged  Jane.      "What's  wrong  with  me?" 

"You've  been  miseducated  too  far  and  too  deeply. 
You  If  now  too  much  that  isn't  so.  You've  got  the 
upper  class  American  woman  habit  of  thinking  about 
yourself  all  the  time.  You  are  an  indifferent  house 
keeper,  and  you  think  you  are  good  at  it.  You  don't 
know  the  practical  side  of  life — cooking,  sewing,  house 
furnishing,  marketing.  You're  ambitious  for  a  show 
career — the  sort  Davy  Hull — excuse  me,  Governor 
David  Hull — is  making  so  noisily.  There's  just  the 
man  for  you.  You  ought  to  marry.  Marry  Hull." 

Jane  was  furiously  angry.  She  did  not  dare  show 
it;  Charlton  would  merely  laugh  and  walk  away,  and 
perhaps  refuse  to  be  friends  with  her.  It  exasperated 

868 


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her  to  the  core,  the  narrow  limitations  of  the  power  of 
money.  She  could,  through  the  power  of  her  money, 
do  exactly  as  she  pleased  to  and  with  everybody  ex 
cept  the  only  kind  of  people  she  cared  about  dominat 
ing;  these  she  was  apparently  the  less  potent  with  be 
cause  of  her  money.  It  seemed  to  put  them  on  their 
mettle  and  on  their  guard. 

She  swallowed  her  anger.  "Yes,  I've  got  to  get  mar 
ried,"  said  she.  "And  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
about  it." 

"Hull,"  said  Charlton. 

"Is  that  the  best  advice  you  can  give?"  said  she  dis 
dainfully. 

"He  needs  you,  and  you  need  him.  You  like  him — • 
don't  you?" 

"Very  much." 

"Then — the  thing's  done.  Davy  isn't  the  man  to  fail 
to  seize  an  opportunity  so  obviously  to  his  advantage. 
Not  that  he  hasn't  a  heart.  He  has  a  big  one — does 
all  sorts  of  gracious,  patronizing,  kind  things — does  no 
end  of  harm.  But  he'd  no  more  let  his  emotions  rule 
his  life  than — than — Victor  Dorn — or  I,  for  that 
matter." 

Jane  colored ;  a  pathetic  sadness  tinged  the  far-away 
expression  of  her  eyes. 

"No  doubt  he's  half  in  love  with  you  already.  Most 
men  are  who  know  you.  A  kindly  smile  and  he'll  be 
kneeling." 

"I  don't  want  David  Hull,"  cried  Jane.  "Ever  since 

son 


THE    CONFLICT 


I  can  remember  they've  been  at  me  to  marry  him.  He 
bores  me.  He  doesn't  make  me  respect  him.  He  never 
could  control  me — or  teach  me — or  make  me  look  up 
to  him  in  any  way.  I  don't  want  him,  and  I  won't 
have  him." 

"I'm  afraid  you've  got  to  do  it,"  said  Charlton. 
"You  act  as  if  you  realized  it  and  were  struggling  and 
screaming  against  manifest  destiny  like  a  child  against 
a  determined  mother." 

Jane's  eyes  had  a  look  of  terror.  "You  are  jok 
ing,"  said  she.  "But  it  frightens  me,  just  the 
same." 

"I  am  not  joking,"  replied  he.  "I  can  hear  the 
wedding  bells — and  so  can  you." 

"Don't !"  pleaded  Jane.  "I've  so  much  confidence  in 
your  insight  that  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  saying  such 
things  even  to  tease  me.  .  .  .  Why  haven't  you 
told  me  about  these  sanatoriums  you  want?" 

"Because  I've  been  hoping  I  could  devise  some  way 
of  getting  them  without  the  use  of  money.  Did  it 
ever  occur  to  you  that  almost  nothing  that's  been  of 
real  and  permanent  value  to  the  world  was  built  with 
money?  The  things  that  money  has  done  have  always 
been  badly  done." 

"Let  me  help  you,"  said  Jane  earnestly.  "Give  me 
something  to  do.  Teach  me  how  to  do  something.  I 
am  so  bored! — and  so  eager  to  have  an  occupation.  I 
simply  can't  lead  the  life  of  my  class. 

"You  want  to  be  a  lady  patroness — a  lady  philan- 
370 


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•  *'    <s»  :*• m 

thropist,"  said  Charlton,  not  greatly  impressed  by  her 
despair.  |  "That's  only  another  form  of  the  life  of 
your  class — and  a  most  offensive  form." 

"Your  own  terms — your  own  terms,  absolutely," 
cried  Jane  in  desperation. 

"No — marry  Hull  and  go  into  upper  and  middle 
class  politics.  You'll  be  a  lady  senator  or  a  lady  am 
bassador  or  cabinet  officer,  at  least." 

"I  will  not  marry  David  Hull — or  anybody,  just 
yet,"  cried  Jane.  "Why  should  I?  I've  still  got  ten 
years  where  there's  a  chance  of  my  being  able  to  at 
tract  some  man  who  attracts  me.  And  after  that  I 
can  buy  as  good  a  husband  as  any  that  offers  now. 
Doctor  Charlton,  I'm  in  desperate,  deadly  earnest.  And 
I  ask  you  to  help  me." 

"My  own  terms?" 

"I  give  you  my  word." 

"You'll  have  to  give  your  money  outright.  No 
strings  attached.  No  chance  to  be  a  philanthropist. 
Also,  you'll  have  to  work — have  to  educate  yourself  as 
I  instruct  you." 

"Yes — yes.     Whatever  you  say." 

Charlton  looked  at  her  dubiously.  "I'm  a  fool  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  this,"  he  said.  "You  aren't 
in  any  way  a  suitable  person — any  more  than  I'm  the 
sort  of  man  you  want  to  assist  you  in  your  schemes. 
You  don't  realize  what  tests  you're  to  be  put  through." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Jane. 

"It's  a  chance  to  try  my  theory,"  mused  he.  "You 
371 


THE   CONFLICT 


know,  I  insist  we  are  all  absolutely  the  creatures  of 
circumstance — that  character  adapts  itself  to  circum 
stance — that  to  change  a  man  or  a  town  or  a  nation 
— or  a  world — you  have  only  to  change  their  funda 
mental  circumstances." 

"You'll  try  me?" 

"I'll  think  about  it,"  said  Charlton.  "I'll  talk  with 
Victor  Dorn  about  it." 

"Whatever  you  do,  don't  talk  to  him,"  cried  Jane, 
in  terror.  "He  has  no  faith  in  me — "  She  checked 
herself,  hastily  added — "in  anybody  outside  his  own 
class." 

"I  never  do  anything  serious  without  consulting  Vic 
tor,"  said  Charlton  firmly.  "He's  got  the  best  mind 
of  any  one  I  know,  and  it  is  foolish  to  act  without  tak 
ing  counsel  of  the  best." 

"He'll  advise  against  it,"  said  Jane  bitterly. 

"But  I  may  not  take  his  advice  literally,"  said 
Charlton.  "I'm  not  in  mental  slavery  to  him.  I 
often  adapt  his  advice  to  my  needs  instead  of  adopting 
it  outright." 

And  with  that  she  had  to  be  content. 

She  passed  a  day  and  night  of  restlessness,  and  called 
him  on  the  telephone  early  the  following  morning.  As 
she  heard  his  voice  she  said: 

"Did  you  see  Victor  Dorn  last  night?" 

"Where  are  you?"  asked  Charlton. 

"In  my  room,"  was  her  impatient  answer. 

"In  bed?" 

372 


THE   CONFLICT 


"I  haven't  gotten  up  yet,"  said  she.  "What  is  the 
matter?" 

"Had  your  breakfast?" 

"No.  I've  rung  for  it.  It'll  be  here  in  a  few 
minutes." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Charlton. 

"This  is  very  mysterious — or  very  absurd,"  said 
Jane. 

"Please  ring  off  and  call  your  kitchen  and  tell  them 
to  put  your  breakfast  on  the  dining-room  table  for 
you  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  Then  get  up,  take 
your  bath  and  your  exercises — dress  yourself  for  the 
day — and  go  down  and  eat  your  breakfast.  How 
can  you  hope  to  amount  to  anything  unless  you  livd 
by  a  rational  system?  And  how  can  you  have  a  ra 
tional  system  unless  you  begin  the  day  right?" 

"Did  you  see  Victor  Dorn?"  said  Jane — furious  at 
his  impertinence  but  restraining  herself. 

"And  after  you  have  breakfasted,"  continued  Charl 
ton,  "call  me  up  again,  and  Fll  answer  your  questions." 

With  that  he  hung  up  his  receiver.  Jane  threw  her 
self  angrily  back  against  her  pillow.  She  would  lie 
there  for  an  hour,  then  call  him  again.  But — if  he 
should  ask  her  whether  she  had  obeyed  his  orders? 
True,  she  might  lie  to  him;  but  wouldn't  that  be  too 
petty?  She  debated  with  herself  for  a  few  minutes, 
then  obeyed  him  to  the  letter.  As  she  was  coming 
through  the  front  hall  after  breakfast,  he  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

373 


THE    CONFLICT 


"You  didn't  trust  me!"  she  cried  reproachfully. 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  he.  "But  I  preferred  to  talk  with 
you  face  to  face." 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Dorn?" 

Charlton  nodded.  "He  refused  to  advise  me.  He 
said  he  had  a  personal  prejudice  in  your  favor  that 
would  make  his  advice  worthless." 

Jane  glowed — but  not  quite  so  thrillingly  as  she 
would  have  glowed  in  the  same  circumstances  a  year 
before. 

"Besides,  he's  in  no  state  of  mind  to  advise  anybody 
about  anything  just  now,"  said  Charlton. 

Jane  glanced  sharply  at  him.  "What  do  you 
mean?"  she  said. 

"It's  not  my  secret,"  replied  Charlton. 

"You  mean  he  has  fallen  in  love?" 

"That's  shrewd,"  said  Charlton.  "But  women  al 
ways  assume  a  love  affair." 

"With  whom?"  persisted  Jane. 

"Oh,  a  very  nice  girl.  No  matter.  I'm  not  here 
to  talk  about  anybody's  affairs  but  yours — and 
mine." 

"Answer  just  one  question,"  said  Jane,  impulsively. 
"Did  he  tell  you  anything  about — me?" 

Charlton  stared — then  whistled.  "Are  you  in  love 
with  him,  too?"  he  cried. 

Jane  flushed — hesitated — then  met  his  glance 
frankly.  "I  was,"  said  she. 

"Was?" 

374 


THE    CONFLICT 


"I  mean  that  I'm  over  it,"  said  she.  "What  have 
you  decided  to  do  about  me?" 

Charlton  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  eyed  her 
narrowly — an  examination  which  she  withstood  well. 
Then  he  glanced  away  and  seemed  to  be  reflecting. 
Finally  he  came  back  to  her  question.  Said  he: 

"To  give  you  a  trial.  To  find  out  whether  you'll 
do." 

She  drew  a  long  sigh  of  relief. 

"Didn't  you  guess?"  he  went  on,  smilingly,  nodding 
his  round,  prize-fighter  head  at  her.  "Those  sugges 
tions  about  bed  and  breakfast — they  were  by  way  of  a 
beginning." 

"You  must  give  me  a  lot  to  do,"  urged  she.  **I 
mustn't  have  a  minute  of  idle  time." 

He  laughed.     "Trust  me,"  he  said. 

While  Jane  was  rescuing  her  property  from  her 
brother  and  was  safeguarding  it  against  future  at 
tempts  by  him,  or  by  any  of  that  numerous  company 
whose  eyes  are  ever  roving  in  search  of  the  most  invit 
ing  of  prey,  the  lone  women  with  baggage — while  Jane 
was  thus  occupied,  David  Hull  was,  if  possible,  even 
busier  and  more  absorbed.  He  was  being  elected  gov 
ernor.  His  State  was  being  got  ready  to  say  to  the 
mayor  of  Remsen  City,  "Well  done,  good  and  faithful 
servant.  Thou  hast  been  faithful  over  a  few  things; 
I  will  make  thee  ruler  over  many." 

The  nomination  was  not  obtained  for  him  without 
375 


THE   CONFLICT 


difficulty.  The  Republican  party — like  the  Democratic 
— had  just  been  brought  back  under  "safe  and  sane  and 
conservative"  leadership  after  a  prolonged  debauch 
under  the  influence  of  that  once  famous  and  revered 
reformer,  Aaron  Whitman,  who  had  not  sobered  up  or 
released  the  party  for  its  sobering  until  his  wife's  ex 
travagant  entertaining  at  Washington  had  forced  him 
to  accept  large  "retainers"  from  the  plutocracy.  The 
machine  leaders  had  in  the  beginning  forwarded  the  am 
bitions  of  Whitman  under  the  impression  that  his  talk 
of  a  "square  deal"  was  "just  the  usual  dope"  and  that 
Aaron  was  a  "level-headed  fellow  at  bottom."  It  had 
developed — after  they  had  let  Aaron  become  a  popular 
idol,  not  to  be  trifled  with — it  had  developed  that  he  was 
almost  sincere — as  sincere  as  can  be  expected  of  an  am 
bitious,  pushing  fellow.  Now  came  David  Hull,  looking 
suspiciously  like  Whitman  at  his  worst — and  a  more 
hopeless  case,  because  he  had  money  a  plenty,  while 
Whitman  was  luckily  poor  and  blessed  with  an  extrava 
gant  wife.  True,  Hull  had  the  backing  of  Dick  Kelly — 
and  Kelly  was  not  the  man  "to  hand  the  boys  a  lemon." 
Still  Hull  looked  like  a  "holy  boy,"  talked  like  one, 
had  the  popular  reputation  of  having  acted  like  one 
as  mayor — and  the  "reform  game"  was  certainly  one 
to  attract  a  man  who  could  afford  it  and  was  in  politics 
for  position  only.  Perhaps  Dick  wanted  to  be  rid  of 
Hull  for  the  rest  of  his  term,  and  was  "kicking  him 
upstairs."  It  would  be  a  shabby  trick  upon  his  fellow 
leaders,  but  justifiable  if  there  should  be  some  big 

376 


THE   CONFLICT 


"job"  at  Remsen  City  that  could  be  "pulled  off"  only 
if  Hull  were  out  of  the  way. 

The  leaders  were  cold  until  Dick  got  his  masters  in 
the  Remsen  City  branch  of  the  plutocracy  to  pass  the 
word  to  the  plutocracy's  general  agents  at  Indian 
apolis — a  certain  well-known  firm  of  political  bankers. 
Until  that  certification  came  the  leaders,  having  no  can 
didate  who  stood  a  chance  of  winning,  were  ready  to 
make  a  losing  campaign  and  throw  the  election  to  the 
Democrats — not  a  serious  misfortune  at  a  time  when 
the  machines  of  the  two  parties  had  become  simply 
friendly  rival  agents  for  the  same  rich  master. 

There  was  a  sharp  fight  in  the  convention.  The 
anti-machine  element,  repudiating  Whitman  under  the 
leadership  of  a  shrewd  and  honest  young  man  named 
Joe  Bannister,  had  attacked  Hull  in  the  most  shocking 
way.  Bannister  had  been  reading  Victor  Dora's  New 
Day  and  had  got  a  notion  of  David  Hull  as  man  and 
mayor  different  from  the  one  made  current  by  the 
newspapers.  He  made  a  speech  on  the  floor  of  the 
convention  which  almost  caused  a  riot  and  nearly  cost 
Davy  the  nomination.  That  catastrophe  was  averted 
by  adjournment.  Davy  gave  Dick  Kelly's  second  lieu 
tenant,  Osterman,  ten  thousand  in  cash,  of  which  Oster- 
man  said  there  was  pressing  need  "for  perfectly  legiti 
mate  purposes,  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Mayor."  Next  day 
the  Bannister  faction  lost  forty  and  odd  sturdy  yeomen 
from  districts  where  the  crops  had  been  painfully  short, 
and  Davy  was  nominated. 

377 


THE    CONFLICT 


In  due  time  the  election  was  held,  and  Mayor  Hull 
became  Governor  Hull  by  a  satisfactory  majority  for 
so  evenly  divided  a  State.  He  had  spent — in  contri 
butions  to  the  machine  campaign  fund — upwards  of 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars.  But  that  seemed  a 
trifling  sacrifice  to  make  for  reform  principles  and  for 
keeping  the  voice  of  the  people  the  voice  of  God.  He 
would  have  been  elected  if  he  had  not  spent  a  cent,  for 
the  Democratic  machine,  bent  on  reorganizing  back  to 
a  sound  basis  with  all  real  reformers  or  reformers 
tainted  with  sincerity  eliminated,  had  nominated  a 
straight  machine  man — and  even  the  politicians  know 
that  the  people  who  decide  elections  will  not  elect  a 
machine  man  if  they  have  a  chance  to  vote  for  any  one 
else.  It  saddened  David  Hull,  in  the  midst  of  vic 
tory,  that  his  own  town  and  county  went  against  him, 
preferring  the  Democrat,  whom  it  did  not  know,  as  he 
lived  at  the  other  end  of  the  State.  Locally  the  offices 
at  stake  were  all  captured  by  the  "Dorn  crowd."  At 
last  the  Workingmen's  League  had  a  judge;  at  last  it 
could  have  a  day  in  court.  There  would  not  be  a  repe 
tition  of  the  great  frauds  of  the  Hull-Harbinger  cam 
paign. 

By  the  time  David  had  sufficient  leisure  to  reopen  the 
heart  department  of  his  ambition,  Jane  was  deep  in  the 
effort  to  show  Doctor  Charlton  how  much  intelligence 
and  character  she  had.  She  was  serving  an  apprentice 
ship  as  trained  nurse  in  the  Children's  Hospital,  where 
he  was  chief  of  the  staff,  and  was  taking  several  extra 

378 


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courses  with  his  young  assistants.  It  was  nearly  two 
weeks  after  David's  first  attempt  to  see  her  when  her 
engagements  and  his  at  last  permitted  this  meeting. 
Said  he: 

"What's  this  new  freak?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  yet,"  replied  she.  "I'm  not  sure, 
myself." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  endure  that  fellow  Charl- 
ton.  They  say  he's  as  big  a  crank  in  medicine  as  he  is 
in  politics." 

"It's  all  of  a  piece,"  said  Jane,  tranquilly.  "He 
says  he  gets  his  political  views  from  his  medicine  and  his 
medical  ideas  from  his  politics." 

"Don't  you  think  he's  a  frightful  bounder?" 

"Frightful,"  said  Jane. 

"Fresh,  impudent — conceited.  And  he  looks  like  a 
prize  fighter." 

"At  some  angles — yes,"  conceded  Jane.  "At  others, 
he's  almost  handsome." 

"The  other  day,  when  I  called  at  the  hospital  and 
they  wouldn't  take  my  name  in  to  you — "  David 
broke  off  to  vent  his  indignation — "Did  you  ever  hear 
of  such  impertinence !" 

"And  you  the  governor-elect,"  laughed  Jane.  "Shall 
I  tell  you  what  Doctor  Charlton  said?  He  said  that 
a  governor  was  simply  a  public  servant,  and  anything 
but  a  public  representative — usually  a  public  dis 
grace.  He  said  that  a  servant's  business  was 
attending  to  his  own  job  and  not  hanging  round 

379 


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preventing  his  fellow  servants  from  attending  to  their 
jobs." 

"I  knew  he  had  low  and  vulgar  views  of  public  af 
fairs,"  said  David.  "What  I  started  to  say  was  that 
I  saw  him  talking  to  you  that  day,  across  the  court,  and 
you  seemed  to  be  enjoying  his  conversation." 

"Enjoymg  it?  I  love  it,"  cried  Jane.  "He  makes 
me  laugh,  he  makes  me  cold  with  rage,  he  gives  me  a 
different  sensation  every  time  I  see  him." 

"You  like— him?" 

"Immensely.  And  I've  never  been  so  interested  or  so 
happy  in  my  life."  She  looked  steadily  at  him.  "Noth 
ing  could  induce  me  to  give  it  up.  I've  put  everything 

else  out  of  my  mind." 

'  'V" 
Since  the  dismal  end  of  his  adventure  with  Selma 

Gordon,  David  had  become  extremely  wary  in  his  deal 
ings  with  the  female  sex.  .•  He  never  again  would  invite 
a  refusal;  he  never  again  would  put  himself  in  a  posi 
tion  where  a  woman  might  feel  free  to  tell  him  her 
private  opinion  of  him.  He  reflected  upon  Jane's 
words.  They  could  have  but  the  one  meaning.  Not 
so  calmly  as  he  would  have  liked,  but  without  any  em 
barrassing  constraint,  he  said: 

"I'm  glad  you've  found  what  suits  you,  at  last.  It 
isn't  exactly  the  line  I'd  have  thought  a  girl  such  as  you 
would  choose.  You're  sure  you  are  not  making  a 
mistake?" 

"Quite,"  said  Jane. 

"I  should  think  you'd  prefer  marriage — and  a  home 
380 


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— and  a  social  circle — and  all  that,"  ventured  David. 

"I'll  probably  not  marry." 

"No.    You'd  hardly  take  a  doctor." 

"The  only  one  I'd  want  I  can't  get,"  said  Jane. 

She  wished  to  shock  David,  and  she  saw  with 
pleasure  that  she  had  succeeded.  Indeed  so  shocked 
was  he  that  in  a  few  minutes  he  took  leave.  And 
as  he  passed  from  her  sight  he  passed  from  her 
mind. 

Victor  Dorn  described  Davy  Hull's  inaugural  ad 
dress  as  "an  uninteresting  sample  of  the  standard  re 
form  brand  of  artificial  milk  for  political  infants."  The 
press,  however,  was  enthusiastic,  and  substantial  people 
everywhere  spoke  of  it  as  having  the  "right  ring,"  as 
being  the  utterance  of  a  "safe,  clean  man  whom  the 
politicians  can't  frighten  or  fool."  In  this  famous 
speech  David  urged  everybody  who  was  doing  right  to 
keep  on  doing  so,  warned  everybody  who  was  doing 
wrong  that  they  would  better  look  out  for  themselves, 
praised  those  who  were  trying  to  better  conditions  in 
the  right  way,  condemned  those  who  were  trying  to  do 
so  in  the  wrong  way.  It  was  all  most  eloquent,  most 
earnest.  Some  few  people  were  disappointed  that  he 
had  not  explained  exactly  what  and  whom  he  meant  by 
right  and  by  wrong;  but  these  carping  murmurs  were 
drowned  in  the  general  acclaim.  A  man  whose  fists 
clenched  and  whose  eyes  flashed  as  did  David  Hull's 
»ust  "mean  business" — and  if  no  results  came  of  these 
26  381 


THE    CONFLICT 


words,  it  wouldn't  be  his  fault,  but  the  machinations  of 
wicked  plutocrats  and  their  political  agents. 

"Isn't  it  disgusting!"  exclaimed  Selma,  reading  an 
impassioned  paragraph  aloud  to  Victor  Dorn.  "It 
almost  makes  me  despair  when  I  see  how  people — our 
sort  of  people,  too — are  taken  in  by  such  guff.  And 
they  stand  with  their  empty  picked  pockets  and  cheer 
this  man,  who's  nothing  but  a  stool  pigeon  for  pick 
pockets." 

"It's  something  gained,"  observed  Victor  tranquilly, 
"when  politicians  have  to  denounce  the  plutocracy  in 
order  to  get  audiences  and  offices.  The  people  are  be 
ginning  to  know  what's  wrong.  They  read  into  our 
friend  Hull's  generalities  what  they  think  he  ought  to 
mean — what  they  believe  he  does  mean.  The  next  step 
is — he'll  have  to  do  something  or  they'll  find  him 
out." 

"He  do  anything?"  Selma  laughed  derisively.  "He 
hasn't  the  courage — or  the  honesty." 

"Well — 'patience  and  shuffle  the  cards,'  as  Sancho 
Panza  says.  We're  winning  Remsen  City.  And  our 
friends  are  winning  a  little  ground  here,  and  a  little 
there  and  a  little  yonder — and  soon — only  too  soon — 
this  crumbling  false  politics  will  collapse  and  disap 
pear.  Too  soon,  I  fear.  Before  the  new  politics  of 
a  work-compelling  world  for  the  working  class  only  is 
ready  to  be  installed." 

Selma  had  been  only  half  attending.  She  now  said 
abruptly,  with  a  fluttering  movement  that  suggested 

382 


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wind  blowing  strongly  across  open  prairies  under  a 
bright  sky: 

"I've  decided  to  go  away." 

"Yes,  you  must  take  a  vacation,"  said  Victor.  "I've 
been  telling  you  that  for  several  years.  And  you  must 
go  away  to  the  sea  or  the  mountains  where  you'll  not 
be  harassed  by  the  fate  of  the  human  race  that  you  so 
take  to  heart." 

"I  didn't  mean  a  vacation,"  said  Selma.  "I  meant 
to  Chicago — to  work  there." 

"You've  had  a  good  offer?"  said  Victor.  "I  knew  it 
would  come.  You've  got  to  take  it.  You  need  the 
wider  experience — the  chance  to  have  a  paper  of  your 
own — or  a  work  of  your  own  of  some  kind.  It's  been 
selfishness,  my  keeping  you  all  this  time." 

Selma  had  turned  away.  With  her  face  hidden  from 
him  she  said,  "Yes,  I  must  go." 

"When?"  said  Victor. 

"As  soon  as  you  can  arrange  for  some  one  else." 

"All  right.  I'll  look  round.  I've  no  hope  of  find 
ing  any  one  to  take  your  place,  but  I  can  get  some  one 
who  will  do." 

"You  can  train  any  one,"  said  Selma.  "Just  as  you 
trained  me." 

"I'll  see  what's  to  be  done,"  was  all  he  said. 

A  week  passed — two  weeks.  She  waited;  he  did  not 
bring  up  the  subject.  But  she  knew  he  was  thinking 
of  it ;  for  there  had  been  a  change  in  his  manner  toward 
her — a  constraint,  a  self-consciousness  theretofore  ut- 

383 


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terly  foreign  to  him  in  his  relations  with  any  one. 
Selma  was  wretched,  and  began  to  show  it  first  in  her 
appearance,  then  in  her  work.  At  last  she  burst  out: 

"Give  that  article  back  to  me,"  she  cried.  "It's 
rotten.  I  can't  write  any  more.  Why  don't  you  tell 
me  so  frankly?  Why  don't  you  send  me  away?" 

"You're  doing  better  work  than  I  am,"  said  he. 
"You're  eager  to  be  off — aren't  you?  Will  you  stay 
a  few  days  longer?  I  must  get  away  to  the  country — 
alone — to  get  a  fresh  grip  on  myself.  I'll  come  back 
as  soon  as  I  can,  and  you'll  be  free.  There'll  be  no 
chance  for  vacations  after  you're  gone." 

"Very  well,"  said  she.  She  felt  that  he  would  think 
this  curtness  ungracious,  but  more  she  could  not  say. 

He  was  gone  four  days.  When  he  reappeared  at 
the  office  he  was  bronzed,  but  under  the  bronze  showed 
fatigue — in  a  man  of  his  youth  and  strength  sure  sign 
of  much  worry  and  loss  of  sleep.  He  greeted  her  al 
most  awkwardly,  his  eyes  avoiding  hers,  and  sat  down 
to  opening  his  accumulated  mail.  Although  she  was 
furtively  observing  him  she  started  when  he  abruptly 
said: 

"You  know  you  are  free  to  go — at  any  time." 

"I'll  wait  until  you  catch  up  with  your  work,"  she 
suggested. 

"No — never  mind.  I'll  get  along.  I've  kept  you 
out  of  all  reason.  ,  .  .  The  sooner  you  go  the  bet 
ter.  I've  got  to  get  used  to  it,  and — I  hate  suspense." 

"Then  I'll  go  in  the  morning,"  said  Selma.  "I've  no 
384 


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arrangements  to  make — except  a  little  packing  that'll 
take  less  than  an  hour.  Will  you  say  good-by  for 
me  to  any  one  who  asks?  I  hate  fusses,  and  I'll  be 
back  here  from  time  to  time." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously,  started  to  speak,  changed 
his  mind  and  resumed  reading  the  letter  in  his  hand. 
She  turned  to  her  work,  sat  pretending  to  write.  In 
fact  she  was  simply  scribbling.  Her  eyes  were  burning 
and  she  was  fighting  against  the  sobs  that  came  surg 
ing.  He  rose  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room.  She  hastily  crumpled  and  flung  away  the  sheet 
on  which  she  had  be  scrawling;  he  might  happen  to 
glance  at  her  desk  and  see.  She  bent  closer  to  the 
paper  and  began  to  write — anything  that  came  into  her 
head.  Presently  the  sound  of  his  step  ceased.  An 
uncontrollable  impulse  to  fty  seized  her.  She  would 
get  up — would  not  put  on  her  hat — would  act  as  if  she 
were  simply  going  to  the  street  door  for  a  moment. 
And  she  would  not  return — would  escape  the  danger  of 
a  silly  breakdown.  She  summoned  all  her  courage, 
suddenly  rose  and  moved  swiftly  toward  the  door.  At 
the  threshold  she  had  to  pause;  she  could  not  control 
her  heart  from  a  last  look  at  him. 

He  was  seated  at  his  table,  was  staring  at  its  litter 
of  letters,  papers  and  manuscripts  with  an  expression 
so  sad  that  it  completely  transformed  him.  She  forgot 
herself.  She  said  softly: 

"Victor!" 

He  did  not  hear. 

385 


THE    CONFLICT 


"Victor,"  she  repeated  a  little  more  loudly. 

He  roused  himself,  glanced  at  her  with  an  attempt  at 
his  usual  friendly  smile  of  the  eyes. 

"Is  there  something  wrong  that  you  haven't  told 
me  about?"  she  asked. 

"It'll  pass,"  said  he.  "I'll  get  used  to  it."  With 
an  attempt  at  the  manner  of  the  humorous  philosopher, 
"Man  is  the  most  adaptable  of  all  the  animals.  That's 
why  he  has  distanced  all  his  relations.  I  didn't  realize 
how  much  our  association  meant  to  me  until  you  set 
me  to  thinking  about  it  by  telling  me  you  were  going. 
I  had  been  taking  you  for  granted — a  habit  we  easily 
fall  into  with  those  who  simply  work  with  and  for  us 
and  don't  insist  upon  themselves." 

She  was  leaning  against  the  frame  of  the  open  door 
into  the  hall,  her  hands  behind  her  back.  She  was 
gazing  out  of  the  window  across  the  room. 

"You,"  he  went  on,  "are  as  I'd  like  to  be — as  I 
imagined  I  was.  Your  sense  of  duty  to  the  cause 
orders  you  elsewhere,  and  you  go — like  a  good  soldier, 
with  never  a  backward  glance." 

She  shook  her  head,  but  did  not  speak. 

"With  never  a  backward  glance,"  he  repeated. 
"While  I—"  He  shut  his  lips  together  firmly  and 
settled  himself  with  fierce  resolution  to  his  work.  "I 
beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "This  is — cowardly.  As 
I  said  before,  I  shall  get  myself  in  hand  again,  and 
go  on." 

She  did  not  move.  The  breeze  of  the  unseasonably 
386 


THE    CONFLICT 


warm  and  brilliant  day  fluttered  her  thick,  loosely  gath 
ered  hair  about  her  brow.  Her  strange,  barbaric  little 
face  suggested  that  the  wind  was  blowing  across  it  a 
throng  of  emotions  like  the  clouds  of  a  driven  storm. 

A  long  silence.  -He  suddenly  flung  out  his  arms  in 
a  despairing  gesture  and  let  them  fall  to  the  table.  At 
the  crash  she  startled,  gazed  wildly  about. 

"Selma!"  he  cried.      "I  must  say  it.     I  love  you." 

A  profound  silence  fell.  After  a  while  she  went 
softly  across  the  room  and  sat  down  at  her  desk. 

"I  think  I've  loved  you  from  the  first  months  of  your 
coming  here  to  work — to  the  old  office,  I  mean.  But 
we  were  always  together — every  day — all  day  long — 
working  together — I  thinking  and  doing  nothing  with 
out  your  sharing  in  it.  So,  I  never  realized.  Don't 
misunderstand.  I'm  not  trying  to  keep  you  here.  It's 
simply  that  I've  got  the  habit  of  telling  you  every 
thing — of  holding  back  nothing  from  you." 

"I  was  going,"  she  said,  "because  I  loved  you." 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"That  day  you  told  me  you  had  decided  to  get  mar 
ried — and  asked  my  advice  about  the  girls  among  our 
friends — that  was  the  day  I  began  to  feel  I'd  have  to 
go.  It's  been  getting  worse  ever  since." 

Once  more  silence,  both  looking  uneasily  about,  their 
glances  avoiding  each  other.  The  door  of  the  printing 
room  opened,  and  Holman,  the  printer,  came  in,  his 
case  in  his  grimy  hand.  Said  he : 

"Where's  the  rest  of  that  street  car  article?" 
387 


THE    CONFLICT 


"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Selma,  starting  up  and 
taking  some  manuscript  from  her  desk  and  handing  it 
to  him. 

"Louis,"  said  Victor,  as  Holmes  was  retreating, 
"Selma  and  I  are  going  to  be  married." 

Louis  paused,  but  did  not  look  round.  "That  ain't 
what'd  be  called  news,"  said  he.  "I've  known  it  for 
more  than  three  years." 

He  moved  on  toward  his  room.  "I'll  be  ready  for 
that  leading  article  in  half  an  hour.  So,  you'd  better 
get  busy." 

He  went  out,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  Selma  and 
Victor  looked  at  each  other  and  burst  out  laughing. 
Then — still  laughing — they  took  hold  of  hands  like 
two  children.  And  the  next  thing  they  knew  they  were 
tight  in  each  other's  arms,  and  Selma  was  sobbing 
wildly. 


When  Jane  had  finished  her  apprenticeship,  Doctor 
Charlton  asked  her  to  marry  him.  Said  Jane: 

"I  never  knew  you  to  be  commonplace  before.  I've 
felt  this  coming  for  some  time,  but  I  expected  it  would 
be  in  the  form  of  an  offer  to  marry  me." 

She  promptly  accepted  him — and  she  has  not,  and 
will  not  regret  it.  So  far  as  a  single  case  can  prove  a 
theory,  Jane's  case  has  proved  Charlton's  theory  that 
environment  determines  character.  His  alternations  of 
tenderness  and  brusqueness,  of  devotion  to  her  and 
devotion  to  his  work,  his  constant  offering  of  some 
thing  new  and  his  unremitting  insistence  upon  something 
new  from  her  each  day  make  it  impossible  for  her  to 
develop  the  slightest  tendency  toward  that  sleeping 
sickness  wherewith  the  germ  of  conventionality  inflicts 
any  mind  it  seizes  upon. 

David  Hull,  now  temporarily  in  eclipse  through  over- 
caution  in  radical  utterance,  is  gathering  himself  for  a 
fresh  spurt  that  will  doubtless  place  him  at  the  front 
in  politics  again.  He  has  never  married.  The  belief 
in  Remsen  City  is  that  he  is  a  victim  of  disappointed 
love  for  Jane  Hastings.  But  the  truth  is  that  he  is 
unable  to  take  his  mind  off  himself  long  enough  to  be 
come  sufficiently  interested  in  another  human  being. 
There  is  no  especial  reason  why  he  has  thus  far  escaped 

389 


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the  many  snares  that  have  been  set  for  him  because  of 
his  wealth  and  position.  Who  can  account  for  the 
vagaries  of  chance? 

The  Workingmen's  League  now  controls  the  govern 
ment  of  Remsen  City.  It  gives  an  honest  and  efficient 
administration,  and  keeps  the  public  service  corpora 
tions  as  respectful  of  the  people  as  the  laws  will  per 
mit.  But,  as  Victor  Dorn  always  warned  the  people, 
little  can  be  done  until  the  State  government  is  con 
quered — and  even  then  there  will  be  the  national  gov 
ernment  to  see  that  all  the  wrongs  of  vested  rights  are 
respected  and  that  the  people  shall  have  little  to  say, 
in  the  management  of  their  own  affairs.  As  all  sen 
sible  people  know,  any  corrupt  politician,  or  any  greedy 
plutocrat,  or  any  agent  of  either  is  a  safer  and  better 
administrator  of  the  people's  affairs  than  the  people 
themselves. 

The  New  Day  is  a  daily  with  a  circulation  for  its 
weekly  edition  that  is  national.  And  Victor  and  Selma 
are  still  its  editors,  though  they  have  two  little  boys 
to  bring  up. 

Jane  and  Selma  see  a  great  deal  of  each  other,  and 
are  friendly,  and  try  hard  to  like  each  other.  But 
they  are  not  friends. 

Dick  Kelly's  oldest  son,  graduated  from  Harvard,  is 
the  leader  of  the  Remsen  City  fashionable  set.  Joe 
House's  only  son  is  a  professional  gambler  and  sets  the 
pace  among  the  sports. 

THE     END.  (1) 


BOOKS  BY  DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 

The  Husband's  Story 

i2mo,  Cloth,  $1.50. 

A  clean,  straightforward  novel,  interesting  from  page  to  page,  and 
as  a  whole  most  interesting  because  Mr.  Phillips  has  with  great  skill 
written  it  so  that  the  millionaire  husband  not  only  shows  the  character 
of  his  wife  but  lays  his  own  character  before  the  reader  as  if  uncon 
sciously.  A  faithfully  true  picture  of  the  social  climber  in  American 
womanhood,  the  Passaic  undertaker's  daughter  who  climbs  to  Euro 
pean  chateau  life.  The  most  cold-blooded  and  accurate  presentation 
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And  yet  the  man  tells  his  own  story. 

The  Hungry  Heart 

i2mo,  Cloth,  #1.50. 

"  Mr.  Phillips's  book  is  at  once  an  interesting  piece  of  fiction  and  a 
trenchant  dissection  of  some  of  our  most  dearly  loved  self-deceptions. 
And  it  is  a  work  that  can  be  read  with  profit — one  is  almost  inclined 
to  say  that  should  be  read — by  any  who  are  old  enough  to  be  able,  and 
honest  enough  to  dare,  to  seek  the  truest  meanings  of  life  by  teaching 
themselves  to  look  life  unblinkingly  in  the  face." — J.  B.  Kerfoot  in 
Everybody 's  Magazine. 

"The  most  profound  study  of  the  emotions  of  men  and  women 
attempted  in  latter-day  fiction  is  found  in  'The  Hungry  Heart.'  It 
should  touch  the  sensibilities,  the  judgment  and  the  emotions  of  every 
one  who  reads  it." — Philadelphia  Record. 

White  Magic 

Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Wenzell,  Color  Inlay  by  Harrison 
Fisher  on  Cover.      i2mo,  Cloth,  $1.50. 

A  wayward  girl,  heiress  to  a  great  fortune,  falls  deeply  in  love  with 
an  artist  of  small  means,  who  does  not  seem  to  reciprocate  her  feeling. 
Her  father  intervenes.  The  girl,  who,  like  her  mother,  has  always  been 
accustomed  to  bow  to  her  father's  aggressive  will,  now  defies  him  utterly 
and  leaves  her  home.  The  artist  remains  unaware  of  the  havoc  he  has 
created.  He  is  friendly  in  a  manner  toward  the  girl  and  tr'es  to  act  as 
a  sort  of  elder  brother  and  counselor  in  her  perplexities.  The  working 
up  and  working  out  of  this  tangled  situation  is  accomplished  in  ^  masterly 
way,  and  with  the  intense  and  dramatic  situations  which  readers  have 
learned  to  look  for  from  Mr.  Phillips. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     ^ 

467 


BOOKS  BY  DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 


The  Fashionable  Adventures  of  Joshua  Craig 

The  story  of  a  strong,  virile  personality,  set  among  the  frothy  super 
ficialities  of  society  life  in  Washington.  Joshua  Craig  is  a  young  lawyer  who 
is  striving  to  make  a  name  for  himself  in  national  politics.  He  is  big,  rough, 
and  crude,  repelling  and  yet  compelling.  He  fights  quite  as  hard  to  gain  the 
Jove  of  a  lady  as  he  does  to  attain  his  coveted  political  goal. 

Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Wenzell.     ismo,  cloth,  $1,50 

Old  Wives  for  New 

A  daring  title.  The  story  is  just  as  daring,  but  nevertheless  it  rings  true. 
It  is  a  frank  and  faithful  picture  of  married  life  as  it  exists  to-day  among  cer 
tain  classes  in  this  country.  It  is  the  story  of  a  young  couple  who  loved  as 
others  do,  but  whose  love  turns  to  indifference,  and  Mr.  Phillips  shows  us  why 
their  married  life  was  a  failure. 

ismo,  cloth,  $1.50 

The  Second  Generation 

It  is  a  double-decked  romance,  telling  the  love  stories  of  a  young  man 
and  his  sister,  both  reared  in  great  extravagance  and  suddenly  left  without 
means  by  their  father,  who,  being  a  self-made  man  has  come  to  feel  that  his 
wealth  has  been  a  curse  to  his  children,  and  would  prove  their  ruination  if  left 
to  them.  The  young  man  and  the  young  woman  find  life  very  hard  sledding 
for  a  time,  but  gain  strength  and  courage  and  make  a  good  fight  for  love, 
happiness,  and  life. 

Illustrated,  ismo,  ornamental  cover  in  colors  inlaid, 


Light-Fingered  Gentry 

In  this  story  Mr.  Phillips  has  chosen  the  inside  workings  of  the  great 
insurance  companies  as  his  field  of  battle  ;  the  salons  of  the  great  Fifth  Avenue 
mansions  as  the  antechambers  of  his  field  of  intrigue  ;  and  the  two  things 
which  every  natural  big  man  desires,  love  and  success,  as  the  goal  of  his  lead 
ing  character. 

Illustrated,  ornamental  cloth, 

The  Worth  of  a  Woman—  A  Play 

"It  is  a  remarkable  piece  of  work,  showing  keen,  logical  thought,  a 
daring  rush  to  conclusions,  a  bold  and  sportsmanlike  grip  of  an  ugly  problem. 
I  admire  the  pluck  of  this  author."  —  Alan  Dale  in  the  N.  Y.  American. 

ismo,  cloth,  $1.25  net 
D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK 


By  DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 


The  Grain  of  Dust 

By  DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS,  author  of  "The 
Husband's  Story,"  "  The  Hungry  Heart/'  "  Old 
Wives  for  New,"  etc.  Illustrated  by  A.  B. 
Wenzell.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.30  net. 

The  story  of  a  great  lawyer  whose  career  comes  near 
being  wrecked  through  his  infatuation  for  a  shy  little 
stenographer. 

"Told  with  unlimited  brilliance  and  animation." 

— Albany  Journal. 

"  It  compels  a  style  of  reading  distinctly  feverish." 

— New  York  Times. 

"  Probably  the  most  brilliant  of  the  novelist's  numerous 
studies  of  character  amid  varying  conditions  of  life." 

— Pittsburg  Chronicle-  Telegraph. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  most  significant  novels  of  the  year 
so  far  in  its  constructive  bearing  upon  the  difficulties  of 
modern  existence.  It  deserves  attention  because  of  its 
singular  merits." — The  Independent. 

"It  is  conceived  in  the  same  vein  of  sincerity  and  treats 
modern  life  with  that  firm  and  certain  grasp  which  has  com 
pelled  serious  and  nation-wide  recognition  for  practically  all 
of  Phillips's  work." — Philadelphia  Press. 

"  One  reads  it  with  feverish  interest.  It  seems  to  demon 
strate  that  love  is  an  illusion,  but  a  very  fatal  and  disturbing 
illusion  while  it  lasts.  The  story  is  remarkable  for  its  concise 
and  suggestive  realism." — Des  Moines  Register  and  Leader. 

D.     APPLETON     &     COMPANY,      NEW    YORK 


AN   UNUSUAL   NOVEL. 


Old  Wives  for  New. 

By  DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS.  12010.  Cloth, 
$1.50. 

The  title  of  Mr.  Phiuips'  new  novel  is  a  daring 
one.  The  story  itself  is  just  as  daring,  but  never 
theless  it  rings  true.  It  is  a  frank  and  faithful 
picture  of  married  life  as  it  exists  to-day  among  the 
prosperous  classes  of  this  country.  It  is  the  story 
of  a  young  couple  who  loved  as  others  do,  but 
whose  love  turns  to  indifference,  and  Mr.  Phillips 
shows  us  why  their  married  life  was  a  failure. 

"  Things  about  women  which  have  never  seen  the  light 
of  day  before." — St.  Paul  Pioneer  Press. 

"  Comes  near  being  a  second  Balzac." 

— Los  Angeles  Times. 

"One  of  the  most  thoroughly  interesting  books  that 
has  been  written  in  many  a  long  month." 

—St.  Louis  Republic. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,    NEW     YORK. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


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